


Shatter Me

by cedarmoons



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Elven Glory, F/M, Minor Anders/FHawke, Minor Andruil/Ghilan'nain, Minor Dorian/Iron Bull - Freeform, Post-Game(s), Slow To Update, so many elves. lots of elves. more than 10, so much angst. damn. (hot damn)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 88,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4326903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you want, my lord?” she asked.</p><p>“What do I want.” The god smiled at her, dark and humorless. “Many things. But most of all, Inquisitor Lavellan, I want to know how the Dread Wolf came to love you so desperately.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, when my old computer broke, I lost 100% of my previous notes, prewritten chapters, etc... which has really taken a hit on my motivation for this fic, so much so that it's almost zero. I'm still writing this, but please do not expect any sort of regular updating schedule. Thanks for your understanding!

Her dress had cost hundreds of sovereigns. It had been pure white, with cream roses embroidered on the bodice. The skirt had been layered like a wedding cake, crimped but smooth and silky. She had felt like she was floating over the floors of the Imperial Palace when she walked. Cullen had called her beautiful. The ragged edges of her scabbed heart had soothed at his small smile, and she had smiled and wondered why she couldn’t love this man.

Now, her dress was irreparably stained by mud and riverwater. She had left her heels somewhere in the marble halls of the Imperial Palace, miles behind her. Blood ran down her arm from a fall. Two years spent clad in the softest silks and best finery the Inquisition could buy—not to mention a full year of staying away from the field—had turned her soft.

Mahanon and Ellana would never have stopped their teasing. _The best huntress in the clan_ , Ellana would say, tossing her long black hair, _and she gets a blister from walking barefoot_. She’d look stern, her younger sister, but mirth would sparkle in her black eyes and betray her teasing.

 _Don’t forget that stitch in her side_ , Mahanon would add. He’d wink at her and smile, kinder than his twin’s. _You’ve only ran, what, a mile? Two? Six years of shems reduces you to this, asa’ma’lin?_

She shut her eyes.

 

They ran through the winding halls of the Imperial Palace, knocking over statues, plants, and anything they thought would hinder those behind them. Footsteps followed them in fast pursuit. Screams echoed from downstairs. Briala barricaded the library door and moved a bookcase to reveal a hidden passageway. The Marquise pointed down the passage while she shucked off her heels. “Take a right at the first branch you come to. That’ll take you underneath the city into the forest. Hurry.”

“Come with me,” she pleaded. A faint scream—she wondered if it might be Josephine’s, and the thought made her gut churn—drifted from below. It was abruptly silenced.

Briala pushed her inside. “I am a traitor to the Crown, Inquisitor. You cannot be seen with me. Now go. I will hold them off. Remember this, when the time comes.” The Marquise whispered two words to her. The bookcase shut behind her, encasing her in darkness, and she ran.

Now, the moonlight stained the forest blue and black and silver. Something skittered past her ankle, and her grip on her sharpened rock—her only weapon for the better part of her day—tightened. The ground was so saturated from the rain it oozed green water every time she moved. She took another step and her dress caught on a bramble.

With a choked cry of rage and frustration, Ariala Lavellan bunched her skirts in one hand and hiked it past her knees. She lifted her rock with the other, and sawed at the silk until it split under her fingertips. She dropped the rock and tore the dress further, gritting her teeth. A steady patter of rain began to fall, dripping down her bare neck. She barely felt it.

She ripped her skirts away until the dress stopped at mid-thigh. Where there had once been three layers of her cake, there was now only one. Ariala tossed the silk aside. Maybe whoever found it would have some use for it—she certainly didn’t.

The flowers that had been braided into her hair for the wedding had already washed away. Ariala dropped her rock and pushed her fingers through her hair, undoing the intricate braids and perfectly placed pins with a hard shake of her head. When she lowered her hands, her black hair fell past her shoulders, unbound and wavy from the humidity.

 _There_ , she imagined Ellana saying. _You look a proper Dalish huntress now_.

 _You are a vision, my dear,_ Dorian had told her. Dorian, who had stayed behind while Briala rushed her to safety through the shadows. Dorian, who was probably—she squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed her rock again, closing her fingers so tightly over it she felt it cut into her hand.

The rain shifted, turning from a light mist to steady sheets of ice. Ariala’s stomach clenched for want of food, but she kept walking. The forest was dark, but not unnavigable. Walking through it seemed to awaken all of her old, slumbering instincts. Wolf paw prints and broken leaf stems to her left—she moved right. A rush of water in the distance—a river, which could mean fish, or a waterfall, or both. Ariala moved further away from the wolf tracks and sought out the river.

She found it before sunrise. It was less a river and more a wide stream. When she stepped into it, she shivered at the cold water running over her bare feet. The rough pebbles of the riverbed cut into her feet, but when she stood still, her calves attracted fish the size of her palms. But they darted away when she leaned down. There was no way she’d catch such small fish with her bare hands. And there was no use bathing in the frigid water, not when she was already freezing. Ariala lifted her gaze to the treeline—and her gaze fell upon a willow tree.

Ariala waded to the willow tree, wincing every time she trod upon the wrong edge of a rock. Rainwater ran down her neck and droplets clung to loose strands of her hair. She pulled herself to the bank and curled up, drawing her legs toward her stomach and holding her rock against her chest. The position conserved heat, but it didn’t help her feel any warmer.

At least she was shivering. That was better than nothing.

 _So this is how the Inquisitor met her end_ , she imagined the historians saying. _She survived an assassination attempt, only to die alone in the wilderness._

 

“Protect the Inquisitor!” Cullen shouted. A _twang_ from across the room, and crossbow bolt buried itself in his shoulder. He staggered. She screamed his name, moving toward him. Dorian yanked her back and lifted his free hand, setting on fire a masked woman who had gotten too close.

Ariala saw a bowman across the room and clenched her fist. A flash of black, and then a green barrier whirled around her, Dorian, and Cullen. The barrier hummed with energy, zapping anyone who came too close, but she was unarmed, and the Aegis would not last forever. She could do nothing. She was powerless.

 

The willow branches moved gently in the wind, shielding her from most of the rain.  A few stray droplets would make it past the shield of leaves and drip onto her bare skin, but she hardly felt their kiss now. Her toes and fingers were numb, her hand still clenched painfully against her rock. Ariala lay curled on the ground until the sky neared dawn.

As the sky lightened, something furry brushed against her wrist. Ariala tore her gaze from the willow bark to the dark brown nug in front of her. She sat up abruptly, sending the poor thing skittering to a hiding place by the willow tree. But when she didn’t move, the nug emerged from its hidey hole, its pink nose twitching as it sniffed the air.

Ariala’s stomach clenched again, and she swallowed hard. She tore up pieces of grass with her free hand and held it out to the nug. “Are you hungry?” she cooed. The nug’s ears flicked up, then flattened against its head. She waited in complete stillness for several minutes—then the nug took a step forward, and another, until it was an arm’s reach from her.

The nug’s ears lifted again and it stopped, still watching her with liquid black eyes. Somehow, they seemed to tremble in their sockets. “It’s all right,” Ariala cooed. “Come here.”

 _If you hold out your hand, they will nuzzle it. It's how they say ‘hello,’ and how they call you ‘friend.’_ Cole’s voice was a whisper in her mind. Ariala smiled as the nug sniffed at her hand, its ears no longer flat across its back. She waited until it perked up, standing on its hind legs and brushing its nose across her palm. She waited until sharp teeth nipped at her palm and lipped up the blades of grass.

“Hello, friend,” she whispered, and brought the rock down hard and swift.

An hour later, the rain let up. Ariala grabbed her nug by the ears and stepped outside, wishing—not for the first time—that she was a mage. She wouldn’t have to look for firewood then. She could just cook her nug and eat it. Not to mention, she could warm her own water for a bath.

A hot bath. She almost sighed at the thought and shook her head again. _Soft and smooth after just two years. Where’s my Dalish hardiness?_

 _Gone_ , the wind in the trees whispered. It sounded like the Nightmare. _Gone, gone, gone. Just like your clan, just like your vallaslin, just like your friends. Are you sure you aren’t a flat-ear? The shems love you. Cut off the points of your ears and you could be one._

“Shut up,” Ariala whispered to herself, but she couldn’t deny the aching chasm in her chest. It opened every time her line of thinking went down that path. She knew better than to get dragged down that road, but she couldn’t stop it.

That was when she smelled burnt wood in the air, and looked up to see a trail of smoke rising to the sky. A campfire; it wasn’t very far. Who was here—and more importantly, where were they going? Were they regular travelers? Were they the ones who had tried to kill her? She only had a rock, and hand-to-hand combat was useless against armor and magic.

Still, she had to take her chances. She couldn’t die, not yet; she had too much to do.

Ariala walked toward the rising curls of gray, her nug in one hand, her rock in another, and her stomach growling all the way. She eventually came upon a campsite. Two men rested at a fresh fire, their backs to her. An elf sat in the shade of one of the tents—trembling, gagged, and bound. When they made eye contact, his eyes widened and he shook his head emphatically.

Slavers? She mouthed the word, and the elf nodded.

Ariala felt her stomach drop, her lips tugging into a sharp frown. She moved the nug to her other hand and opened her left palm, allowing the captured elf to see the Anchor. It was scabbed over, dormant since Corypheus’s defeat two years ago, but a green glow still accompanied it. The elf’s eyebrows lifted. She thought she saw an impression of a smile behind his gag.

“Wait, I sense something,” one of the slavers said. “Magic.”

A mage. Wonderful. She’d have to kill him first. Ariala moved behind a tree. She shifted her rock to her left hand, positioning it so it covered the Anchor entirely. She waited a heartbeat, took a deep breath, and moved slightly from behind her cover. The other slaver turned around and saw her hiding in the shadows. His eyes narrowed. “You. Come out. Now.”

Ariala stepped forward. Their eyes widened as they took her in—wild, mussed hair; bloody, torn, mud-caked white dress; various scrapes and bruises all over her body. And perhaps most important, she noted sourly, her pointed ears on full display. “I’m sorry, messeres,” she said, looking down, hunching her shoulders. “I’ve been lost in the woods. When I saw your campfire—I’m so hungry…”

The slavers exchanged a look. “It’s all right. Are you a mage?” the mage asked. He had light brown eyes and pale skin, and a rich Tevinter accent. Ariala scanned him. He wore nothing but thin mage robes: designed to repel magical attacks; resistant to arrows; all but helpless against blades. If she used the rock with enough force... Still, his staff rested beside him.

“No,” she answered, not missing a beat. “I swear, messeres. I just want to use your fire to cook my nug. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“What happened to you?” the other questioned, his eyes narrowing. A set of daggers rested on his waist. She could disarm him, once the mage was dead. Fighting both of them at once—she had her doubts.

“I was attacked,” she said. The mage grabbed his staff, pretending to use it as a walking stick as he stood up. The barest skitters of blue across the wood was all the warning she had before ice burst across her legs, freezing her in place.

Ariala snarled. She dropped her loads and lifted her left hand, dredging up the energies from the Fade, gathering it into herself and pushing the power into her palm. She had done it so many times, it was easy as breathing.

The Anchor answered her call. The sickly green light glowed brighter, harmless lightning sparking over her hand. Ariala locked eyes with the mage and released that power, clenching her hand into a fist.

 

“So how does it work?” she asked, sitting on the stone wall he stood in front of. Snow drifted down lazily from the sky, resting on her eyelashes and nestling into her scarf. When Solas did not answer her at first, she lifted her hand, still pulsing with green light. “This thing. The Mark.”

“I do not know for certain, but I speculate that it allows you to harness the power of the Fade with remarkable ease. You are unique in that you have access to a new facet of magic, never before studied.”

Ariala half-smiled. “Okay, but how does it work?”

“A good question. One I fear I do not know the answer to.”

Ariala pulled a face and glanced at her scarred hand. “Dorian and Vivienne tried to explain their own theories, but—magic is confusing.”

Solas smirked at her confession. “Allow me to make it as clear as I am able. The energy you harness is… a current, of sorts. If you do not control it, it will consume you. You must channel that power, shape it with your will.”

Ariala nodded, a smile teasing at the corners of her lips. “Of course. Yep. Definitely know what that means.”

Solas huffed a laugh. “You will, in time. You need only have faith in yourself and your abilities.”

“Hmm.” Ariala glanced at the Breach. A moment later,  she looked back at him, smiling coyly. “Do  _you_  have faith in me?”

Solas didn’t hesitate. “The utmost.”

 

It was just like Corypheus.

The Veil tore open inside the mage. He screamed as the rift consumed him, and the moment he was gone she closed what remained of it. The ice melted around her legs, no longer sustained by his magic, but she stayed in place, watching the rogue rushing toward her. _One, two_ —she lunged out of his way and turned, kicking the back of his kneecaps.

The slaver buckled, snarling as she wrenched his arm back and wrested his offhand dagger from him. A branch snapped across the clearing, and she turned—with a bang and a bright white flash, smoke from a grenade filled the area, and she felt the slaver pull from her grasp. Within seconds, the area was clear, and he was gone.

Ariala spun around, searching wildly, and stiffened as a cold dagger pressed into her neck. “I know who you are,” the man breathed. His breath on the back of her neck made her shudder. “There’s a bounty on your head. Wonder if you’re worth the trouble.”

Ariala replied by grabbing his wrist and ramming her elbow into his gut. Her arm met chainmail, but her blow was hard enough he loosened his grip—not by a lot, but enough that she was able to pull his arm down and twist away. He slashed at her with his second dirk, but she ducked out of the way just in time. Instead of spearing through her throat, the blade cut through her cheek.

“Knife-eared _bitch_ —” his curse cut off with a gurgle, and he collapsed on top of her. Ariala shoved him off of her, recoiling when she saw a golden arrowhead sprouting through his throat. She lifted her head, following the path of the arrow in her mind’s eye, and stilled.

Two elves sat astride the biggest halla she had ever seen. The woman wielded a longbow, her quiver full of golden arrows. Her hair was deep brown, just a touch darker than her skin, and her eyes blazed gold. A scar traced from the corner of her eyebrow and dragged down her cheek and neck, disappearing down her strange robes. Her companion was far paler than she, but his hair was midnight black and his eyes were a bright, vibrant blue.

The man tilted his head, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “What do we have here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asa'ma'lin - sister
> 
> many thanks to fenxshiral's project elvhen for the translations :)


	2. Chapter 2

Ariala didn’t answer him at first. She paused, running a mental check. Her cheek was wet, and she could feel the blood running down her collarbone. Another injury to add to her growing list—scratches from the woods, possible hypothermia, and a cut in her hand from her rock.

And then she remembered the elf. She took a breath, trying to steady her racing heartbeat. “You have a rescue operation,” she replied, bending down to scoop up the rogue’s discarded daggers. She glanced at the halla—they were as big as harts, seemed far more well-fed than any halla she’d seen before, and didn’t seem to mind a whit at being fully saddled like horses—and turned on her heel. “A moment, please,” she said over her shoulder.

She walked to the tent, where the captured elf was still tied up. She knelt before him and pressed a finger to her lips. When he didn’t make a noise, she leaned forward until her mouth was next to his ear. “Do not indicate you know who I am. Feel free to tell others that I am alive, but make sure you don’t mention my identity to these people. Do you understand?”

Her voice was the quiet whisper, more breath than words. She pulled back, watching the elf. She only pulled down his gag after he nodded. “Thank you, miss,” the elf gasped. “I thought for sure I was a dead man.”

Ariala cut his bonds loose and pulled him to his feet. “Those men were slavers. How did they find you? Are you a woodcutter?”

“I’m a hunter, miss. My wife’s sick. The healer told us he needed embrium to heal her, so I left to get the herbs myself. They found me and took the embrium.”

“Where am I?”

“Outskirts of Val Chevin. Five miles west and you’re in the city. You can come with me, if you like, Your—miss. I know people who can help. Friends.” He stressed the last word, giving her a pointed glance.

“That won’t be necessary. She’ll remain with us,” an unfamiliar voice said. Ariala turned to see the man who’d watched her so curiously, no longer on his halla. She looked at him and saw raven’s wings spreading from his back—felt an icy impression of fear she could not shake. When she blinked back to herself, he stood before her, arms crossed, watching her with an inscrutable expression. He was, again, an elf. “We’ll make sure she’s safe.”

The hunter rubbed his wrists. “Miss—”

“Go,” she said, softly, not moving. “Take what you want. Make sure your wife is all right. Tell your friends all about what happened, if you wish.”

The hunter nodded and started ransacking the slavers’ camp. He brought her whatever notes he found—“Can’t read ‘em, they’re no use to me”—and once she’d scanned them she told him to give the notes to his friends as well.

By the time the elf was gone, the archer had joined them, impatience colored in her scowl. “The day wanes. Why do we linger here?”

“More importantly, why would I go with you?” Ariala asked, directing her question to the stranger.

“Because you bear familiar magics,” the man answered, “and I would know why.”

She stiffened. Abelas had said the same thing, right before he called her shemlen and denied their shared heritage. She had never asked Abelas, but she had her chance with this stranger. “What do you mean, ‘familiar magics’? I’m not a mage.”

“Indeed,” the man replied. After a long pause, he continued. “You are an elf. City elf, or slave?”

She bristled. “Dalish.”

“Impossible,” the archer declared, her arms crossing. The Well was silent—it had been for several months—but it did not stop the vague impression of starlight when Ariala looked at her. It was not beautiful, but bright and brutal and fearsome, and the glimpses she felt were tainted by insanity. “Dalish bear vallaslin.”

Ariala felt her lips quirk and the scar on her heart throb. She’d had plenty of time to get used to the questions, to adjust to the sight of her bare face. To reconcile Solas’s gift with his leaving. “Just so.”

Silence followed her words.“Forgive me,” Ariala said at last. The woman raised her eyebrows. “I haven’t introduced myself. I am Ariala.”

“Only Ariala? I understand the Dalish come from clans,” the man said.

“Yes,” Ariala said, and said nothing else. Every time she blinked, she could see the ghostly outlines of his raven wings, like the spots that appeared after she stared at a light too long. It was disconcerting.

The man paused, studying her. “My name is Dirthamen.”

“I am Andruil,” the archer added.

Ariala stared at them, subtly shifting her stance, her face going blank in preparation of the Game. For the first time in months, she shifted her thoughts inward, seeking the wellspring of knowledge that had helped her before. _Are they telling the truth?_

The Well was silent. Not even a trace of a whisper to answer her. She tried to hide how alarming that was, turning her head and fastening her gaze on the treetops to hide her face. “That…” she stopped. Swallowed. “Is a lot to take in.”

“You believe us?” Dirthamen sounded amused.

“Why should I not?” Ariala asked. If not for the impressions from the Well—and she knew they were from the Well; even if the voices were gone, the knowledge was not. When she looked at the gods, she felt the same things as when she’d been reading the undistinguishable text at the Temple of Mythal. They were the gods of her legends—but—

“And yet you don’t pay the proper respects,” said Andruil, her eyes narrowing. “You stand in front of your gods, and you do nothing.”

 _No god need prove himself_ , Solas murmured against her ear. Still, she lowered her eyes and dropped into a deep curtsey. Dirthamen crouched before her and tilted her chin up with two fingers. His hood cast a shadow over his face, concealing most details except his piercing eyes.

“Rise, Ariala,” Dirthamen said. They stood together and Dirthamen turned to his companion. “We can afford to wait a few hours yet, Andruil. Your love is a patient woman.”

Andruil shifted her weight, her scarred lips tugging into a sharp frown. “You may wish to wait with this shemlen girl, Dirthamen, but I have no patience for your games. I ride ahead.”

“You’re leaving?” Ariala asked, her shock slipping through her mask. Dirthamen looked at her and she bit her cheek, expression calming once more.

Andruil turned her gaze upon her, and Ariala nearly trembled. “Know this, seth’lin. You are fierce, yes, but you have no vallaslin. If I had been alone when I came upon you and the slavers, I would have left you to your fate.”

The huntress turned on her heel and strode back to her halla. A few moments later, Ariala heard the halla nicker and ride off. Dirthamen sighed. “Forgive her,” he said. “Andruil has had… a more difficult adjustment to this new world than the rest of us.”

“I can imagine,” Ariala said. She moved past the Lord of Secrets, found a long stick to serve as a spit, grabbed her nug, and sat down before the fire. Dirthamen sat next to her and watched the flames. As she skinned her meal, she said, “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Dirthamen said. He smiled slightly.

“Who freed you from your prison in the Beyond?”

Dirthamen’s expression darkened. “Fen’Harel.”

He was a quiet one, this… Dirthamen. She still had trouble swallowing the idea that the man in front of her was a deity, worshipped by her people. Ariala supposed his reticence was part of him being Lord of Secrets, or perhaps he didn’t want to talk to her.

Still, he questioned her as if he expected her to pour her soul out to him. She had no intention of letting him know anything substantial, but she could also ask many questions. “That seems… foolish of him. Does he still live?”

“Yes. He lives. No matter how much we wish the contrary.”

“What do you mean?”

Dirthamen smiled. He didn’t look offended, but she didn’t know him well enough to know if his blank expression was natural—or dangerous. “You are inquisitive, aren’t you?”

Ariala smiled and, once she was finished skinning, stuck the meat on the spit. As it cooked, she rolled her shoulders. “I suppose. Will you answer my question?”

“Indulge me,” Dirthamen murmured. A raven cawed in the distance, and she saw a blur of black race above the treetops, followed by another. Ariala watched them for a moment and looked back at the god before her, her heart racing. Her questions itched on her tongue— _were those Fear and Deceit, or regular ravens?_ —but Dirthamen didn’t allow her to finish. “For every question you ask of me, I ask a question of you. Any you refuse to answer allows me another.”

Ariala stiffened despite herself, and tried to smile to make up for her mistake. “Ir abelas. I don’t make a habit of spilling my life story, not even to the gods. My curiosity will wait.”

“A shame,” Dirthamen said. She said nothing else, focusing instead on eating her now-cooked nug. The warmth that spread through her limbs when she ate a piece of meat made her sigh, even as she felt the food travel into her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dirthamen leave, but he returned minutes later with his halla.

She ate whatever was edible and tossed the rest of the nug’s remains into the fire. After she’d put out the fire, she turned to Dirthamen, who was already on his buck. It was strange, seeing a halla bridled and saddled like a horse. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the sight.

Still, when Dirthamen offered her his hand, she grabbed it and swung herself up to sit behind him. She couldn’t resist a god, even if she would’ve preferred to go to Val Chevin and learn of the Inquisition’s fate. She didn’t know what Dirthamen would do if she didn’t go with him.

Besides, what other elves had the chance to meet their gods? What elf would look the Lord of Secrets in the eye and refuse to accompany him?

“Where are we going?” she asked, winding her arms around his waist. She looked at the buck bearing both their weight. It didn’t seem to mind at all—she wondered if Dirthamen had asked the creature, or if he had just… saddled it like a common beast. The halla tender in her clan had always told her the halla were too proud to be mounts.

Dirthamen snapped the reins, and the halla began to move into an easy gait. “To a temple of Sylaise,” he replied. “Restored to its full glory.”

“Andruil will be waiting there?” she asked. The buck moved faster, leaping over a fallen tree, and Ariala clutched to Dirthamen tighter out of instinct. The wind began to rush past her ears, and she closed her eyes, relishing the feel of it on her face. No halla of today could move this fast, she was certain of it. But a halla of Elvhenan—if it was, in fact, of Elvhenan—had the potential to be completely different.

“Yes—as will two others,” Dirthamen said.

Ariala bit back a smile. She would get to meet two of her gods. For all her failures, for all her time with the humans—she was still Dalish to the core. The Well shared her feelings—a strange joy, accompanied by something not unlike anticipation, buoyed itself from her stomach and lodged in her heart.

Ariala laughed. This time, she could not stop her smile.

“Which ones?”

“Ghilan’nain.” Dirthamen paused. “And Fen’Harel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Seth'lin - thin-blooded


	3. Chapter 3

She traced her fingers along the jawbone necklace. “Why do you wear this, emma lath?”

She was tucked between him and the back of the white couch. A book lay open but unused on the ground. Some time ago they had given up on reading together; she’d decided instead to turn on her side and use him as her pillow for her nap. But sleep was a long time coming. They merely rested on the couch.

Solas was charting small circles into her shoulder blade, staring at the ceiling. At her question, he looked down at her, following her gaze to the wolf jawbone on his breast. “It was a gift,” he said, quiet. “From an old friend. The oldest I had. Nowadays I wear it as a reminder.”

He spoke with the same quiet pain as when he’d come back from Wisdom’s loss. Ariala swallowed, adjusting so her head nestled on the crook between neck and shoulder. “A reminder of what?”

“Of what I was.” He kissed the top of her head. “And what I must be.”

 _Ominous,_ she thought. She smiled at him and brushed a kiss across his jaw. “I prefer you as you are, ma’arlath.”

“You two are giving me a toothache,” Dorian called from the library. Solas tilted his head back again, sighing in exasperation, and Ariala hid her face in his tunic as she laughed.

 

When the buck finally slowed to a stop, it was raining again—light patters that dusted her skin at first but, given enough time, soaked her to the bone. It had to be sometime in the afternoon, judging by their shadows, but Ariala was uncertain.

She looked over Dirthamen’s shoulder. “Are we here?”

“Yes.”

They were in some forest, but the thicket of trees surrounding her held no trace of a temple. There weren’t even any ruins to indicate anything had been there. Her silence must have been telling, because Dirthamen turned his head slightly and half-smiled. “Have faith,” Dirthamen murmured, and the halla began to move forward.

The magic washed over her like a waterfall. It left shivers of heat underneath her skin and a sweet aftertaste in her mouth. It was as if she’d physically moved through one of Solas’s barriers. Ariala watched the woods shimmer around them, watched the magic slip away, and couldn’t stop her gasp.

The halla had stopped in a courtyard—the cobblestone path was lined by flowers. Three walls surrounded them, the stone arches within them twice as tall as the Iron Bull. The trees in the courtyard towered above her but were dwarfed by the temple walls. Every stone shone and hummed with an energy that made her Anchor glow faintly.

For a moment, Ariala felt as if she were in Arlathan. She turned to look over her shoulder and her gaze followed the cobblestone path. It grew more dilapidated as it stretched on, and it was gone completely when it reached the wards that shielded the Temple.

“Who hid this?” she asked. She would’ve been embarrassed at the breathless wonder in her voice, were she not so awed. If she could tell the Dalish about this at the upcoming Arlathvhen…

“I did,” Dirthamen replied, dismounting. She wondered if the Temple of Mythal had looked so splendid—the Well responded, gifting her with glimpses of priests in silks and lush gardens and exotic, colorful birds nesting in the Temple—and she smiled.

An unfamiliar voice broke her thoughts. “Dirthamen, who is with you?”

The halla snorted, pawing the ground anxiously, and Ariala quickly dismounted. When she was off, the buck ambled away. She looked to see who the voice belonged to.

She had been so preoccupied with examining her surroundings she hadn’t noticed the woman standing beneath the arches that separated the courtyard from the outer hallways. She was a tall, willowy elf, almost as tall as Andruil. Her hair was silver, with some strands twisted into braids in her otherwise unbound hair. In all her life, Ariala had only ever seen one silver-haired elf, and that had been Lyna Mahariel at an Arlathvhen when she was nine.

Her dress was strange as well—loose, flowing, deep blue, unlike anything Ariala had seen. The silk seemed to change shades as she walked toward them, and the sunlight caught a silver armband shaped like vines on her arm. The clothes made the woman seem to float instead of walk. As she drew closer, Ariala saw her clouded blue eyes.

Ghilan’nain stopped in front of her, staring over the top of Ariala’s head. “Ghilan’nain,” Dirthamen said, “allow me to introduce Ariala. We found her fighting for her life in the forest.”

“And I see you survived. I am glad of it.” Ghilan’nain smiled. “Andaran atish’an, Ariala.”

“It’s an honor to be here, my lady,” Ariala said. She wasn’t sure how to address the gods, but anything was better than Your Worship. _Anything._ “This place is a marvel.”

Ghilan’nain’s smile widened. “Ma serannas. While the others were away, Fen and I tended to the temple. I admit, most of his magic did the work. Until Sylaise and—”

Dirthamen cleared his throat. She stopped at once. “Ir abelas, Ghilan’nain. Where is Fen’Harel? And Andruil? She rode ahead of us.”

Ghilan’nain’s face turned thoughtful, and for some inexplicable reason her blind eyes focused on the Anchor. Ariala balled her left hand into a fist. “Ah. I imagine you wish to speak with him. Andruil is bathing. Fen’s in the gardens.”

Dirthamen turned to Ariala and smiled. His smile was charming but his eyes were distant, preoccupied with something he didn’t care to share. “We’ll speak later. For now, please excuse me.”

“Andruil told me you were coming,” Ghilan’nain said to her, once Dirthamen was gone. “I found a room for you to stay in. Sadly, it’s rather small, but it will do. Come with me, please?”

She didn’t wait for Ariala’s reply. Ghilan’nain turned around and started walking at a slow, controlled pace. When they reached the arches, Ghilan’nain stretched out her hand and stopped, her fingers running over the stone. After a few moments, she nodded and turned, walking down the shaded, open hallway. Ariala followed her, drinking in everything she saw.

Ghilan’nain stopped at a pair of large doors, running her fingers over the grains. The doors were wooden, but woven into the design were metal strips, bent and twisted to resemble a bonfire. They had no handles. The doors were flanked by enormous braziers.

Ghilan’nain pushed the doors open, and they gave way with a groan. Ariala stepped into a vestibule and stopped dead, her eyes widening.  

The temple was beautiful. The ceiling had long caved in, but any rubble had been cleared away. A barrier above her, almost invisible, kept the temple dry. The sunlight was able to shine down unhindered, and it illuminated the beautiful mosaics in the walls around her. She saw fire, red and gold and orange; another mosaic was of elfroot and prophet’s laurel intertwined, green and blue and silver. Each mosaic had a small brazier resting in front of it. A staircase in front of her, chipped and worn smooth by footsteps, led up to another set of doors. Those, too, were just as carefully crafted, though the metal designs in the wood were just loops instead of any particular shape.

Ghilan’nain was waiting for her by the doors. Ariala hurried to her side. Ghilan’nain smiled when she joined the goddess and pushed open the doors again. This time, the hall had a ceiling, but the enormous windows lining the left side allowed for plenty of light. Most of the windows had broken panes of glass or were missing glass altogether, but a few of them had been repaired, with only the finest cracks to show they had ever been broken.

Ghilan’nain placed her hand on the wall and hummed to herself as she walked. After several twists and turns, they came upon a grand staircase. Ghilan’nain ascended the steps with ease; when they reached the landing, Ariala opened her mouth to warn her, but Ghilan’nain stopped at the landing and continued on her way.

As they climbed the second flight, Ariala couldn’t stop her curiosity. “My lady, may I ask you something?”

“Of course. Though I cannot guarantee an answer.”

“How—how can you see?”

“Ah.” Ghilan’nain turned a corner and placed her hand on the railing, not looking back. “You know the story?”

“Yes. A hunter blinded you and left you for dead in the forest.”

“Indeed. Andruil found me and set me free. She could not give me back my physical eyes, but she granted me the ability to see one’s magical… aura, for lack of a better term. It was easier in Elvhenan, when everyone had magic in their soul. I imagine it’s a bit harder nowadays, if what Fen told me is true. As for my familiarity with the temple, my mother was a devotee of Sylaise. I was here quite often in my youth.”

They reached the third floor. A balcony was on their left side, overlooking the forest that surrounded the temple—the only thing that separated the balcony from the rest of the building was the wall of arches. Ariala wove between them, stepping between balcony and temple effortlessly.

Ghilan’nain led her to a small door; this one had a handle. She pushed it open and revealed a spacious room, smaller than Ariala’s own rooms at Skyhold but no less luxurious. A large bed with a king’s willow weave bedspread was in the middle of the room. Its headboard stretched to the ceiling; a carving of Sylaise’s fire was in the center, wreathed by vines. Diagonal from the bed was a small fireplace, tucked neatly into the corner. Empty bookshelves lined the rest of the front wall.

On her right were the arches. Ariala stepped outside and started when she saw that every balcony was connected, forming a pathway that wound around the exterior of the temple. Cullen would’ve had a fit over it, she knew. This open layout made it too easy for assassins to slip in undetected. Still, it was beautiful.

She looked over the balcony, and caught sight of Solas. Her breath caught in her throat.

Ghilan’nain approached her, her hands at her side, her gaze steadfast on the treetops. “Do you like the room?”

“What? Oh—yes,” she said, absently, unable to take her eyes off of Solas. Her chest was constricting, squeezing her heart. It was hard to breathe. _No. No, I made peace with this. With him._ _How is he—why is he here?_

The pieces clicked into place like they were a puzzle box.

Dirthamen had wanted to speak with Fen’Harel. Ghilan’nain had said she saw personal magics instead of things. The goddess had looked straight at her hand. Ariala tightened her grip on the banister and drew in a ragged breath. “My lady—if I may ask, what do you see when you look at me?”

“You?” Ghilan’nain pursed her lips. “Your hand is most clearly outlined, and the rest of your body less so.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Whose magic do you see?”

Ghilan’nain’s dark brows—well, they were darker than her hair—drew together. “You don’t know? You have Fen’Harel and Mythal’s magics inside you. I almost mistook you for Fen, but he has a third facet you do not possess.”

Third facet? What did that even mean? Was that even possible? Nothing about magic ever made sense to her.

Ariala’s arms shook with the strain of holding herself upright. Dirthamen had reached Solas—Fen’Harel (nausea churned in her gut)—but they had yet to speak. _This was Solas all along. Everything that happened. It’s his fault._

“I need to see him,” she said. Her voice shook. “Please, my lady, how can I get to the gardens?”

Ghilan’nain had barely given her the directions before Ariala was gone. His words ran through her head as she moved. _This fate is mine alone. Indeed, I would not wish it upon an enemy, much less someone that I once cared for. What if you wake up to find the future you shaped is worse than what was? (Whatever you need, we can find together—no, we can’t. You’ll see.)_

She had suspected he was Elvhen since before the Temple of Mythal—had suspected after enough stories about his ‘experiences’ with Arlathan in the Fade, even—but this? She was a huntress, trained to notice the smallest things. She may not have been a Keeper, but she knew about the Dread Wolf. How could Solas be the Great Betrayer? The very thought was hilarious, but she couldn’t bring herself to laugh.

By the time she reached the gardens, her heart was racing, her breaths came in short, shallow bursts, and her skin was clammy. _Shock_ , she recognized, distantly. Apparently, assassination attempts didn’t send her into shock, but learning that Solas was the Dread Wolf did. Or maybe the weight of them together had finally done her in. Not for the first time, she realized that how skewed her priorities were.

Ariala stopped to rest behind a pillar and heard Dirthamen’s voice. _Fenedhis._ She’d forgotten all about him.

“She has a shard in her soul, and she has your magic on her hand. I don’t believe for a moment you don’t know who she is, _brother_.” The last word was a sneer, less warm than when he’d addressed Ghilan’nain. She swallowed hard. He spoke of the Anchor, but—shard? Somehow she didn’t think he was speaking of Solasan’s strange keys.

“I have yet to meet this woman, Dirthamen. You haven’t even told me her name.”

“Do I need to?” Dirthamen asked, now sounding smug. He raised his voice. “Come out, please.”

He knew. Of course he knew. Ariala caught her breath and stepped from behind the pillar, her gaze turning to Solas—Fen’Harel (she could not see it)—automatically. He was sitting on a stone bench, beneath a gazebo made of sparkling crystal. There was a hole in the gazebo’s roof to make room for the oak tree growing beside the bench. A small stream ran by the oak, its bubbling filling the silence.

When Solas saw her—blood and cuts and torn dress and all—his eyes widened.

“What happened to you?” he asked, but he did not get up. He addressed Dirthamen, his expression hardening even as he stared at her. “Why didn’t you heal her on the way here?”

“You are far more proficient at healing than I, Dread Wolf,” Dirthamen said with a vague smile. “I was hoping _you_ could do the honor.”

Ariala stared at Solas full-on, then dropped into a shallow curtsey—and with the curtsey, she began to play. When she looked up, a strange, pained look had crossed over his face; it was gone as soon as she looked at him. “My name is Ariala, lord,” she said. She could not confront him about the Anchor now. Not when Dirthamen stood just there. So—for now—she would have to play the Game. It was a good thing she had had plenty of time to practice.

Solas shook his head and stood up. “Please. There is no need for niceties. Would you like to sit?”

His voice was so gentle. Her blood thrummed in her ears like a hummingbird. Ariala crossed and sat beside him, turning her body to face him. The crystal gazebo scattered the light on the grass, highlighting the ground and their laps several different colors. Solas slid his hand across her good cheek into her hair, parting his fingers for her ear. The touch ached with familiarity.

“How did you get this?” he asked, touching a cut on her collarbone. He traced a glyph across the wound, and ice burst across it, numbing the dull pain that had haunted her since the wedding.

Ariala did not answer at first. He looked up then, his eyes the bluest she’d ever seen them, his forehead creased in concern. “Won’t you tell me, Ariala?” he prompted, voice soft. It was too much. In the days after Crestwood, she had done her damnedest to heal her heart; she’d gathered the pieces together, glued them back together with alcohol and fighting until it no longer hurt to look at him.

But at the simple sound of her name on his lips, the hard-fought scars that crisscrossed her heart burst in the worst way: all at once, in a terrible, great rush of emotion.

 

“I imagine it’s hard for you,” Dorian said to her, his voice pitched low so no one would overhear them. Ariala sat on his lap, reading through one of the _Hard in Hightown_ books. She lowered her book to see that Dorian had discarded his own tome and was watching her with something curious in his eyes.

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” she said, but her voice rung hollow. She tried to focus on her serial, but she couldn’t concentrate.

“He broke your heart—don’t deny it, I heard you blubbering in your room—and you carry on as if—”

She cut him off with a look, shutting her tome. “Broken hearts still beat, Dorian,” she reminded him.

Dorian hesitated, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Yes, I suppose they do.”

 

Ariala had to struggle to keep her face neutral. _Play the Game, dammit._ “I was attacked,” she said at last. “At the wedding.”

Solas had healed the cut on her collarbone with a distant, clinical touch. She couldn’t blame him for his reserve, not when Dirthamen stood just feet from them. He had moved on to the gash on her cheek. But at the word _wedding_ , his healing magic stuttered and tapered off. The hand holding the good side of her face tightened. “ _What_?”

“Someone sent assassins at the wedding,” she repeated.

“Yours?” There was something tight in his voice. She almost smiled, but then she noticed that Dirthamen was watching Solas—and he was smiling. The Lord of Secrets looked at her, saw her watching him, but his smile didn’t change. In a way, his open expression was a mask all on its own.

“No,” she answered at last—did she imagine it, or did the tension in Solas’s shoulders melt away? In any case, Solas resumed his healing work. He traced a glyph across her arm, and the ice that formed melted and turned into water, taking the blood with it as it dripped to the dirt. “Gaspard and Anora’s.”

“Queen Anora of Ferelden?” She nodded, staring at his hands. They glowed green, hovering over a shallow gash in her arm. “Why would she marry Gaspard? From my travels, I was under the impression that Ferelden and Orlais had a… strained relationship.”

 _From my travels_. She almost snorted, and wondered if ‘from my travels’ would become the new ‘in the Fade.’

“The Qunari have been putting pressure on Ferelden’s coast—raids and such. Anora was also without an heir and getting older. The nobles called a Landsmeet and decided that Anora had to look outside Ferelden to strengthen its borders; Gaspard promised that she would remain sole ruler of Ferelden and he would rule Orlais. If they had two heirs, one kingdom would go to one child, and vice versa.” Josephine had worked on that deal for two weeks without rest. And now—she swallowed, refusing to think of it.

The magic was soothing, but it reminded her too much of the days they’d been on the road together. The hands that had saved her life so many times belonged to the Dread Wolf—she banished the thought, but straightened up nonetheless. Solas noticed, pausing his healing to watch her for a long moment. Then he went back to work, washing off the blood, healing her cuts.

“For a Dalish elf, you know much about the world’s affairs,” Dirthamen said. He’d stopped smiling.

Ariala ignored Solas’s fingertips on her neck and smiled. “I am knowledgeable about many things, my lord.”

Dirthamen laughed, but his expression didn’t change. “I’m certain,” he said, blue eyes shining. “Was there a reason for your visit, Ariala?”

Solas finished healing the last of her bruises—a nasty one on her knee she’d gotten bumping into a table. “I learned from Ghilan’nain that my Mark is Fen’Harel’s,” she told them. Neither seemed surprised, even though the thought of Solas being the reason for her Mark still stunned her. She stared at Solas. “I would have liked to learn such a thing from you yourself, Dread Wolf.”

Solas lowered his gaze. “I imagine so. I am sorry I could not tell you myself. Ir abelas.”

“Tel’abelas,” she replied. Her voice was perfectly amiable. It didn’t shake at all. Josephine would’ve been proud. “At least this way I learned the truth.”

He lifted his head, his lips tugging into a sharp frown. She half-smiled and rose from the bench, dusting off her dress and curtseying to both gods. “I’ll take my leave now. I’m sorry I disrupted your conversation. Thank you for healing me, Dread Wolf.”

She could feel Solas’s gaze on her back long after she’d left the gardens. When she found her room again, Ghilan’nain was not there, so she collapsed on her new bed and stared at the ceiling, allowing her tightly reined emotions and thoughts free range.

Solas. Her love was the Dread Wolf. A being meant to inspire terror. A being never to be trusted.

The only time Solas had inspired terror in her was the day Wisdom died. Since the Hinterlands, she had trusted Solas with her life. But the gods had called him Fen’Harel, had snarled _brother_ with the same venom as a Dalish saying _harellan_.

“The Dread Wolf,” she muttered, rubbing the heel of her palm into her eyes. “I’m the Dread Wolf, and I’m going to haunt your nightmares while I—insult your intelligence and complain about perfectly good tea and go to bed the moment the sun sets—”

Ridiculous. Her life was _ridiculous_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emma lath - my love  
> Ma'arlath - my love  
> Andaran atish'an - enter this place in peace; a formal greeting  
> Fenedhis - a common curse in Elvish  
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Tel'abelas - I'm not (sorry)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition recovers from the attack, Varric brings some help, and the advisors discuss their new problems - the least of which is Inquisitor Ariala's disappearance.

Chateau Volant was, by all accounts, a beautiful place. The roof was black tile, the exterior walls were pale yellow stucco, and pink rosebushes were lined along the house at every three feet. The fountain—a golden fish spurting water to the sky—was active, and the sunset painted the walls a soft rose gold. All in all, a picturesque setting. If it were in his book, it would’ve been hiding a terrible secret inside its doors.

But every damn window was open and Varric Tethras could smell the sick at the gate. “I come to give Lucky the first copy of  _Tale of the Inquisitor_  and everything’s gone to shit,” he muttered to his companion, walking down the cobblestone path. It was lined by perfectly manicured hedges. “Typical. Assassination attempts at a wedding? The Inquisitor’s gone missing? I should write a sequel.  _Weird Shit: Book Two_.”

Also typical: Cassandra Pentaghast was the first person he met, even before he reached the front door. His companion dropped back, but Varric kept on walking, greeting the Seeker with an easy smile. Surprisingly, she was out of her armor, but her sword was still sheathed at her waist. “Varric,” she said, and the relief in her voice made his eyebrows rise. “I see Cole found you? You brought the healers?”

Varric crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, Cole found me. But I didn’t bring just  _any_  healer, Seeker.”

She looked past Varric, saw who was with him, and stiffened. Varric half-turned, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. “I brought the best damn healer this side of Thedas.”

Anders of Darktown stood on the lawn, his hands gripping his staff so tightly his knuckles were white. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was ashen. His clothes hung off his frame a little looser than Varric remembered.  _I’m sick of hiding_ , Anders had said.  _If I get captured by Templars, so be it. I’d rather help people than hide._

He had to give Anders that: the man was determined.

“You told me you didn’t know where he was,” Cassandra said flatly, her hand going to rest on the pommel of her sword. “He is a dangerous man, Varric. A dangerous criminal, a known terrorist, and worse, an  _abomination_.”

Varric could’ve sworn he saw a crack of blue on the man’s hand and turned back to Cassandra, stepping in front of Anders. A confrontation between Justice and the Seeker was the last thing anybody needed.

“As I’ve said, Seeker, I’m a professional liar. Do you want his help or not?”

Cassandra stared at him, then lifted her gaze to look at Anders. “Did you come here willingly?”

“Yes,” Anders said at once. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, meeting the Seeker’s glare head-on. “If you’ll allow it. I… want to help.”

Cassandra sighed. “I cannot begrudge you that. If what Varric told me about you being a healer in Darktown is true—” she glared at him when he interjected with an affronted  _of course it is!_  and continued, “—then we welcome your help. As for your patients, there are Seekers and a former Templar within this building. Will that be a problem?”

“Not unless they try to take me away.” The crack of blue on Anders’s hand disappeared, and the mage’s tense stance—and his grip on his staff—relaxed. Varric breathed a sigh of relief.

“No, they will not. When you step into that house, you are under my protection. Varric, where is Cole?”

Varric shrugged. “Beats me. He found me, we found Anders. The kid took one look at him and disappeared, said he needed to talk to someone. He’ll show up.”

“I see. Come, then.” Cassandra turned on her heel and took them into the house.

What should have been a sumptuous Orlesian manor was instead a sickbay. Tarps covered the furniture, and the paintings were veiled by a sheer black cloth. In what Varric _assumed_  to be the living room, Dalish lay on a cloth-covered couch, a bandage wrapped around half her face. Krem sat next to her, holding her hand. Vivienne was kneeling next to the two, her hands glowing green and hovering over Dalish’s bandages.

It was a good thing the Iron Lady’s back was turned, because Varric did  _not_  want to see what her reaction to Anders’s presence would’ve been. The Seeker marched past the three and took them to the second floor, turning a corner and leading them to a guest bedroom.

First: he saw a tabby kitten napping on the windowsill, the tip of its tail resting on its nose. Second: Dorian Pavus lay on a cot, much paler than Varric remembered. The Tevinter mage was absolutely still; were it not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Varric would’ve assumed the worst. The Iron Bull sat next to him, watching the room with a careful eye.

“Varric,” Bull rumbled in surprise when he saw them. “Good to see ya.”

“You too, Tiny. Cole told me everything. Rough couple of days, huh? How’s Sparkler?”

Bull scoffed. “I’d say.” He looked down at Dorian, and something unreadable crossed his face. “He’s fine. Viv put him in a magically induced coma to accelerate his healing or some shit like that. I’d rather not think of it.”

Sister Nightingale—he supposed he should start calling her Most Holy or something now—sat on the guest bed, singing a wordless tune while she braided a dark-skinned woman’s hair. Said woman was hunched over a bucket, moaning pitifully. Varric took a better look and saw the woman was no other than Josephine Montilyet.

“Ruffles?” he asked, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. The ambassador was a damn mess—her nightdress was white, but he could still see the sweat stains in the fabric. Her hair was plastered to her skin, and there was an unhealthy color in her cheeks. Whatever the would-be assassins had done, they’d messed her up bad.

Josephine looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Varric,” she greeted, her voice hoarse. “I am sorry you have to—” Her body seized and she gasped into the bucket, vomiting nothing but blood and spit. She recovered, gasping for air, and continued, “I am sorry you have to see me like this.”

“Saar-quamek,” Bull explained. “Makes you hallucinate and throw your guts up. It’s a bitch to get out of your system. She’s been like this since the attack.”

Anders stepped forward, sitting on the edge of the bed, on the opposite side of Leliana. “Can she lie down?” Anders asked Leliana, who nodded and wrapped a leather band around Josephine’s braid. The Divine scooted out of the way, and Anders carefully placed Josephine on the bed, rolling her onto her side. His hands began to glow blue.

“There must be some way I can help,” Cullen Rutherford said outside the door. In the relative silence, the whole room could hear him loud and clear. Anders looked up sharply. “It’s been two days, Madame Vivienne. You haven’t slept at all.”

“How kind of you to notice, darling,” Vivienne said. Her voice was getting louder, accompanied by the sharp clack of heels on tile.

“Oh, shit,” Varric mumbled. Cassandra turned around and shut the door behind her. Anders blinked, clenching his jaw, and re-focused on Josephine.

Varric pressed his ear against the door.

“Cassandra, what are you doing? I must see to Dorian.”

“Yes… I imagine so. But before you do that, there is something I must tell you. There… is another healer inside that room.”

“From Val Royeaux?” Cullen’s relief was palpable, even with a thick door muffling his voice. “Thank the Maker—”

“Not quite.” Varric imagined Cassandra’s face: lips pressed into a thin line, eyes half-narrowed, face pinched in disgust. It amused him more than it should have.

“Oh, this is ridiculous. What does it matter if there is another healer? Move aside, and allow me to do my job.” Vivienne’s heels grew louder. Varric only had time to back away before the door opened and Vivienne strode inside, poised even while exhausted. Cullen was right behind her, and Cassandra behind him. All of them walked into the room and stopped.

Anders was trying very hard not to look at the three. Leliana was still humming as she held Josephine’s hand, though her voice was softer, and her eyes were on the trio who had just entered.

“Cassandra,” Vivienne, her eyes on Anders, “is that or is that not the apostate who destroyed the chantry of Kirkwall, and in doing so started the Mage-Templar wars and ruined thousands upon thousands of lives?”

“It is,” Leliana confirmed. “And he is here to help, Madame Vivienne. Or did you not hear what Cassandra said outside? Did you not just say you needed help?”

“I would appreciate aid from an experienced mage, not a raggedy abomination,” Vivienne replied, looking Anders up and down. Anders clenched his jaw, but he did not rise to Vivienne’s bait. He took a deep breath and pressed a hand to Josephine, resting his other hand on her stomach. Varric was almost proud of him for that.

Vivienne made a disgusted noise as she went to Dorian. “And that is the man the Champion loved,” she sneered under her breath.

Anders snapped. He stood up, faced Vivienne and strode toward her, his hands curled into fists and his lips pulled back in a vicious snarl. Worse, he blinked, and his brown eyes gave way to a blue glow. Fissures erupted across his body, even over his clothes, thousands of little shards of blue light connected like some kind of magical spiderweb. “You will not speak of Hawke!” he roared. His voice was three times as deep and echoed in the room. “You—will not—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bull shifted himself to shield Dorian. Vivienne held up a hand. A fireball bloomed in her palm. “Let’s take this outside, my dear,” she purred, eyes flashing. “Or are you willing to sacrifice innocents for your own selfishness as last time? Has time taught you nothing?”

Justice snarled, his hand raising for his staff—Varric had Bianca in his arms when he stepped in front of Vivienne. “Come back to us, Anders,” he said, firmly. “You wanted to help, remember? Hawke wouldn’t want this.”

Justice unhooked his staff from his back. His fury did not fade, but he didn’t make any move to attack Varric. His next words were low, rumbling, vicious. He held up his free hand, and an orb of lightning began to form in the shell of his palm. Static arcs ran across his hand with little buzzes. “Why should we aid them when they clearly do not want it? When they took what was most precious to us?  _What have they done to be spared our justice?_ ”

The kitten on the windowsill was cowering, meowing pitifully. Varric could smell the ozone in the air, remembered it from the Gallows when Justice had electrocuted the Templars in their armor. He aimed Bianca, narrowing his eyes, a harsh rebuttal on the tip of his tongue.

Before he spoke, Cole materialized in front of Justice. Justice flinched, and the orbs of lightning in his hand flickered out. Cole held a dagger in his hand. “You’re in pain, both of you, hurting, howling inside,” Cole said, lowering his head. “But this is not justice. This is vengeance. I won’t let you hurt them.”

“What does Compassion know of Justice?” Justice rumbled. “ _I_  am Justice! I will not be denied!”

Varric stepped forward, to try and pull the kid back—he may have been a spirit, but Varric had seen him bleed. Vivienne’s hand on his shoulder stopped him short. With a subtle shake of her head, the Grand Enchanter re-strengthened her barrier. Varric focused back on Justice and Cole.  _Good luck, kid,_  he thought grimly.  _You’ll need it._

Cole altered his voice. Added a twinge of humor. Adopted a cadence to his words Varric knew all too well. “If you see him, and he’s Justice, tell him:  _Anders, love, what the hell are you doing_?”

Justice staggered, releasing the staff. It clattered to the floor as he fell to his knees. Justice managed to keep himself from falling flat on his face by catching himself with one hand. Cole rushed to the windowsill, soothing the kitten with a few strokes. The spirit kept sending anxious glances over his shoulder, like Justice would stand back up and get back to his plan of killing everything. But eventually, he calmed the kitten enough to get it to crawl into his hand. Cole cupped his other hand over the kitten and knelt in front of Justice, who was clutching at his head.

The kid continued, still using Hawke’s speech patterns. “If that doesn’t work—Maker, I _hate_  being serious—then tell him I know he can do it. Crack a joke if you can, it’ll lighten things up.”

Justice grimaced, lowering his head so Varric couldn’t see his expression. For a moment, Varric dared to hope that Cole had done the impossible, done something even Hawke hadn’t been able to do—but there were still cracks in Anders’s skin, and when he looked up again, his eyes still glowed blue. Varric’s hope disappeared.  _I’m going to die_ , he thought, certain now as he’d never been before. Cole had failed. Anders had finally given Justice free reign.

But, to his surprise, Justice did nothing.

The tension was unbelievably thick. Later, Varric might’ve said someone could cut it with a knife, but he was a better writer than that. He settled for knowing that everyone held their breath, waiting for what would happen next.

Cole offered the kitten in silence. Justice stared at the spirit, his nose still scrunched, his brow still furrowed, his lips still twisted into an angry frown. But he no longer looked like he wanted to rip Vivienne apart. That was good, Varric supposed. Better than the alternative.

And then—he lifted his hand to Cole’s, and the spirit boy gently placed the tabby kitten in Justice’s palm.

The tabby kitten shrank from Justice, one paw slipping off his palm and the tail curling around his fingertips. Varric couldn’t see the kitten’s face, but he could see Justice’s, and he’d never seen anything like it.  The spirit watched the tabby, and slowly, his face began to soften—the lines in his forehead smoothed, the wrinkles around the bridge of his nose disappeared, his mouth lifted from a scowl to a line. He watched the cat with an almost thoughtful confusion.

Cole moved to crouch by Justice’s side, watching the kitten as well. “Tell him I love him. And tell Varric to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

 _No guarantees, Hawke,_ Varric thought.

Justice shuddered, bowing his head, and one by one the fissures in Anders’s skin began to seal shut. There were no spasms as Anders fought for control. It was almost—peaceful, as if Justice had given up willingly.

Cole blinked, his wide colorless eyes earnest and serious. When he spoke again, his voice was back to normal. “The hawk flew away to protect others. Hawks do that. You knew that when you let her go. You knew she might not fly back.”

Anders lifted his free hand to cover his eyes. Varric slowly returned Bianca to her holster, and Cassandra followed suit by sheathing her sword. The Seeker’s eyes were glistening.  _A romantic at heart_ , he thought, shaking his head, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to tease her about this, not now. Maybe he never would.

“I should’ve gone with Hawke,” Anders muttered at last. “If I had—”

“Trust me, Blondie,” Varric said. Anders looked up sharply. Varric couldn’t blame him for his surprise—he hadn’t been Blondie in years. Varric had thought it was a good sign that Anders hadn’t collapsed and succumbed to Justice, back when he found him with Cole. Now he wasn’t so sure what a ‘good sign’ with Anders was. “If you’d been at Adamant, nothing would’ve changed. You just would’ve had to watch Hawke die, instead of hearing it from me.”

“I don’t believe that,” Anders said fiercely. “I don’t believe—” He shuddered, and a gash of blue light ripped down the back of his hand.

“Ser Anders,” said Josephine. Her voice was weak, but it captured the attention of everyone in the room. Anders lifted his head and turned to her. Josephine clung to Leliana’s hand, and she managed to sit up with help from the Divine. Her half-finished braid hung over one shoulder. “Please come here.”

Anders didn’t move. Cole held out his hand. Anders looked up at the spirit, something unreadable in his gaze, and took it. Cole helped him to his feet and vanished; with one hand cradling the kitten, Anders sat on the other side of Josephine. The ambassador smiled at him and placed her hand over his kitten-free one. “Thank you for healing me. I still feel lightheaded, but I am much better now. I daresay you saved my life.”

Anders looked down. The kitten had jumped out of his hand and onto his lap, where it was currently making a nest. He stroked it lightly, shaking his head. “If I hadn’t come, everyone would be safer.”

“If you hadn’t come, Josie would be dead,” Leliana said.

“Still.” Anders swallowed. “If you wish to arrest me, Seeker, I would understand. I… I won’t fight.”

Cassandra looked to Leliana, who shook her head. “I will do no such thing,” Cassandra said. “We have many injured, and you… controlled yourself, in the end.”

Anders laughed hollowly, lifting his eyes to stare at Cullen. “And what about you, Cullen? Does the Templar in you trust an abomination?”

“Former Templar,” Cullen corrected. He had a bandage wrapped around his whole left shoulder. He scrutinized Anders, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. “Do I trust an abomination? No. I don’t think I ever will.” Anders stiffened, but Cullen continued. “But I do trust the man who lived in Darktown so he could heal the sick and injured for free. I trust  _him_. And I’m glad he’s here to help, instead of the alternative.”

“Touching,” said Vivienne. Her tone implied the opposite. She pushed down on Dorian’s chest, and the Tevinter groaned in his sleep. Bull shifted his attention to his boyfriend. “But there is still the matter of Anora’s assassination. We have no leads for the culprit?”

“Several,” Cullen said. “But I think we should focus on the fact that Ferelden will never take Gaspard as her King without Anora by his side. Much of the Inquisition’s forces left with Corypheus’s defeat. We can’t win an outright war with Orlais, even with the Ferelden armies.”

“We can’t force him to abdicate, not when their marriage was consummated and Leliana crowned him,” Josephine added.

“The Chantry law recognizes their marriage a binding one,” Leliana agreed, frowning as she began to braid Josephine’s hair again. “But if we can prove Gaspard killed Anora to gain the crown of Ferelden, I can revoke his kingship and appoint another to the throne.”

“But there are no Theirins left, except—” Josephine cut herself off and closed her eyes, massaging her temple. “Oh, dear.”

There was silence for almost ten seconds. Then the room burst into a fresh round of arguing.  _Oh, yeah_ , Varric thought,  _definitely need to start outlining that political thriller._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS my hand slipped and my anders/hawke feelings went out of control. sorry! back to regularly scheduled solavellan next chapter :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES, sorry for the wait. solavellan reunion incoming!

Red crystals burned her throat as they poked through her mouth, spreading the haze. Shackles kept her chained to the wall. The dungeon was dank and dark and deep. She could feel the clean break in her ribs, wrenched open to allow the lyrium sprouting through her stomach room to grow. Her chest was filled with an emptiness that scalded.

In a whisper of sound, he was there beside her. He knelt, brow furrowing. “You can change this,” he told her. “You have done so before. Use the Anchor.”

He was calm. Focused. Damn him. The door swung open upstairs, and boots on the stairs made the rotted wood groan. Panic flared in the space her heart used to occupy. His fingertips were gentle, so gentle, as they grabbed her chin and turned her turned head to him. “Focus on me,” he whispered. “They do not matter, falon. How will you escape this?”

Ariala thought of fur, of wind across her back, of freedom. The heat intensified, bolting down her back and clogging her throat. She could barely breathe; speaking was out of the question. A crystal beaded along her temple, a jewel just beside her eye. Solas touched it, pushed it back where it came from, and the pain that spiked through her skull made her cry out. It was a faint sound, but it echoed across the silent prison.

His eyes flashed, seizing the progress. His fingers moved to the lyrium nestled into the crook of her neck, and she screamed when he drove it through her skin. Her back arched against the wall, tears streaming down her face. “Yes,” he told her. A thumb brushed across her jaw. “Let them hear you. You are the one who controls your dreams. You have the power here. You can escape this nightmare, vhenan.” Lips pressed against her unscarred temple, then hovered above her ear. “So _escape_.”

Her jaw was stiff, sore, scalded where the lyrium kissed her inner cheek. She bit down anyway. The red crystals shattered under her teeth, and she gulped the splinters down even as they tore holes in her throat. Tears dripped onto the floor; she chewed and swallowed the lyrium, gasping for breath when her mouth was clear. The footsteps grew closer. “I—” her stomach roiled and she heaved, straining against the manacles that shackled her to the wall. “I wish—”

“What do you wish?” he asked.

She looked up, her burnt lips quivering. “I wish to run.”

“Then run,” was his reply. Ariala shut her eyes, and thought of the wolves.

The Anchor flared in her hand as her cell door swung open, bathing the black room in green light. Her teeth were not blackened and blunt when she bared them at the Venatori; they were elongated, curved, ivory white. Her hands turned slender, bristles of short fur growing across her skin, and they slipped between the manacles around her wrists easily.

Her white paw stepped on the last shard of red lyrium, and it cracked under her weight. She threw her head back, and howled, and ran.

When Ariala saw Solas next, in the waking world, she hugged him, hoping he could feel her gratitude in the gesture. _Ma serannas_ simply wasn’t enough for what he’d done.

 

The spring was still young, but the nights were getting warmer. Ariala walked past the crystal gazebo on the way to the kitchens, lifting her eyes to watch the oak tree’s black branches sway in the breeze. The twilight painted the sky the palest blue, blending with navy and orange to splash across a beautiful canvas. A firefly lit up beside her dress, and the flames within the red fabric flickered.

Dirthamen, Andruil, and Ghilan’nain were in the kitchens when she arrived. Dirthamen leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze on nothing in particular. Andruil stood beside her lover, her hand resting between the halla mother’s shoulder blades. Ghilan’nain was carving the doe carcass, carefully holding the slices of meat in the air and depositing on the plates Andruil provided her. She did not look up as Ariala entered, but her smile brightened her whole face. “Ariala! Hello. How do you like the dress?”

Ariala ran an appreciative hand over the silk. “I still feel as though I’m about to be struck down,” she said. “It was very kind of you and Andruil to think of such things, my lady.”

“We couldn’t have you in a ruined wedding dress,” Andruil said, her golden eyes gleaming. Her scar stretched as she smiled. “And I do enjoy seeing Sylaise in a state. Imagine her face if she were to see you now.”

“That was her point, Andruil,” Dirthamen replied. Andruil shrugged and held out a plate to him. Ariala grabbed her own plate of deer and her own cutlery, then found a place along one of the columns that separated the kitchen and a servant’s hall.

“Where is Fen?” Ghilan’nain asked. Andruil tucked a silver strand behind the goddess’s ear. The gesture seemed almost tender, but Ariala hesitated to call anything Andruil did _tender_.

“I am here,” was the response. Solas emerged from the servant’s hall, dressed in finery so unlike his _hobo apostate_ façade it would make Dorian’s eyes pop. He carried himself with a grace that had always been innate in his step, but now, watching him, it was far more apparent. Though she was sure there was no love lost between the elves in front of her, Solas seemed more at ease with them than he ever had with anyone in the Inquisition—except maybe Cole. She was not so arrogant as to include herself alongside the spirit. He had given her a mask as well.

Ariala watched the man she had thought she’d known slip past her and take a plate from a frowning Andruil. He cut a piece of the meat with his fork and took a bite. The whole time he had spared no more than a passing glance her way. “Delicious, as always, Ghilan’nain.”

Ghilan’nain smiled, something rueful tucked in her expression. “I wish we had something more sumptuous for us. But the garden is still growing, and without the servants…”

“The world has changed,” said Dirthamen. “We can adapt, as we did before.”

“Still, servants would be nice,” Andruil mused. Ghilan’nain laughed and pressed a kiss to the huntress’s cheek, a gesture so easy for her it seemed natural. Ariala looked down at her deermeat, frowning as a feeling—it was not quite jealousy, nor nostalgia or loneliness, but a strange mix of all three—welled inside her chest. She had been ravenous all evening, but now her appetite was lost.

 She saw a shadow of movement out of the corner of her eye, and Dirthamen was next to her. “What are you thinking?” he asked, nothing but curiosity in his eyes. Ariala looked up, her breath catching in her throat.

Solas was watching her. His face was a carefully cultivated mask of neutrality, but his eyes were iron blue. He met her gaze for a heartbeat before he turned to Ghilan’nain, answering a question Ariala hadn’t heard. At the same time, Ariala turned back to Dirthamen. Her pulse thrumming under her skin was the only indication of her feelings.

“How long am I staying?” she asked. The question was louder than she’d intended, and the whole kitchen grew quiet.

Dirthamen half-smiled, but his gaze was cool and distant again. “Do you not wish to be here?”

“I… things happened, before you found me.” Ariala rolled her shoulders, her meal forgotten. “I need to go back, set the wrongs to rights.”

“Things?” Andruil snorted and chewed her meat. After a long moment, she swallowed and cut off another piece. “What do you mean?”

“One of my allies is in danger. She may very well be dead. I can’t… I’ve loved the time I’ve spent here, really, but I can’t sit around and do nothing for the rest of my days. I need to get back to the world. I need to _do_ something.”

Solas’s lips quirked and he took another bite, turning away. Dirthamen cast him a glance and turned back to Ariala. “I see. Andruil and I are set to go to Orlais in two days. You could accompany us, make inquiries there.”

Andruil laughed. “What?” she asked, her lips curling up. But Dirthamen did not reply, only awaited an answer from Ariala, and the goddess’s smile dropped. “You cannot be serious, Dirthamen.”

“Our task was to learn as much as we can about this new world, Andruil,” Dirthamen reminded her. “Ariala lived and breathed here while we slept. Would it not be better to have her as our guide?”

Andruil assented with a grumble, and Dirthamen turned his attention to Solas. “Would you prefer to join us as well, Dread Wolf? We have limited supplies as it is—there is no need to bend that fork in half.”

Solas had been holding the fork with a white-knuckled grip. Ariala hadn’t even noticed, but she shouldn’t have been surprised that Dirthamen had. He had already proven himself a master of observation—and she wondered how long it would be before her charade was called. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

“I will,” Solas said, his tone even. “Ma serannas. I quite enjoy Val Royeaux’s frilly cakes.”

Ariala smiled, then glanced at her plate. She had an answer—she would return to civilization soon, perhaps learn news of the Inquisition. If fate was kind, her friends were still alive. Her smile slipped away when she realized that, in all likelihood, she had left them in the ballroom to be slaughtered.

“Are you going to eat?” Andruil asked. Ariala looked up, startled to see the goddess in front of her, then shook her head. Andruil took her plate and returned to Ghilan’nain. The halla mother pursed her lips with a single glance toward Ariala, and resumed her conversation with Solas.

Dirthamen was the first to retire. He did not say goodnight, and it took several moments for Ariala to realize that he had left. Once she did notice his absence, however, she excused herself with a soft “Goodnight, everyone.”

“On nydha,” Ghilan’nain replied. Solas said something that made her laugh, and as she giggled she managed to add, “Dar’atisha.”

Solas smiled, making no attempt to acknowledge her leaving. _The Game_ , Ariala reminded herself. _He only plays the Game_. She swallowed the hurt and turned on her heel, but she could not shake the niggling of doubt that accompanied her footsteps. It _had_ been two years, a long time by anyone’s standards. He could have moved on. Perhaps he’d even forgotten about her, and seeing her again was an unwelcome— _enough_.

Her feet did not lead her to the staircase that would take her up to her foreign room. Instead it took her to the gazebo. She sat on the stone bench for a long moment, breathing through her nose, trying to calm herself. But staying still didn’t work.

She stood up and paced, then left the gazebo to stand on the grass. The roar of cicadas thrummed in her ears, and if she closed her eyes she could almost imagine she was back on the road, standing watch while Bull snored and Varric told stories and Solas prepared for an evening in the Fade.

Ariala knelt in the grass, then collapsed with an _oomph_ , turning onto her back to stare at the stars. The grass’s chill crept through her dress to settle along the small of her back, but she hardly noticed it. _Years_ , she thought. _I haven’t slept under the stars in years._

She heard Andruil laughing with Ghilan’nain. Neither of the goddesses noticed her as they passed, on their own way to bed. After several long minutes, the temple fell silent again, with nothing but the cicadas and the buzzing fireflies.

The footsteps that tread upon the grass were light, but she still heard them, and she could recognize the gait. Ariala shut her eyes and breathed in, slowly, trying to let the fresh spring scent linger in her memory.

Solas sat beside her, and she smiled despite herself. “I wondered how long you’d avoid me,” she whispered. _This is your fault. Everything was your fault._

“It was necessary.” She opened her eyes and saw him propped up on an elbow, watching her. There were no moons tonight, so she could only just make out the line of his features. A firefly buzzed by his ear, shedding neon light on his cheekbone for a fraction of a second. “Ir abelas.”

“For what? For your deception? For promising me that you would _make everything clear_?”

“Have I not kept that promise? You have seen my brethren, but you still don’t see?” He sounded incredulous, even as his voice dropped lower.

“I see beings I have been taught my entire life to fall before and worship, though I don’t want to do that,” she hissed. “I see those who were supposedly the caretakers of the People, and yet they care for no elf but themselves. I see elves who sit in a ruined temple and do _nothing_. What should I see, Trickster?”

She did not mean to spit out the word. Still, her tone was full of vitriol. Solas flinched. She could dimly see his head turned and his jaw clenched tight.

“Elgar’nan wanted to burn this world to the ground and start anew,” Solas replied. “I cautioned patience. Just because you see nothing on the surface does not mean there is nothing underneath. We have had a plan to rebuild the world since the very start.”

“Yes,” she murmured, something strange tightening in her throat. She swallowed the lump. “That word. _We_. Another thing we need to discuss.”

At this, she sat up. When Solas pulled away, she followed, until he stilled and their noses were close enough to brush. If she just leaned forward, closed the small gap between them… a part of her knew she would find closure again. She closed her eyes and inhaled, momentarily forgetting what she’d wanted to say. His scent had changed. When before he smelled like ink, paint, and books, sometimes with the faint tinge of blood, now he smelled like cedarwood and cooking smoke with the barest traces of rain.

At least the underlying herbs were the same as before: elfroot, embrium, arbor blessing. It provided a comfort she didn’t know she needed. A reminder that some part of him was still the man she lo— _had_ loved.

A firefly lit up by his eyes. There was pain in his blues, and longing, too; the sight of it made her stomach twist. Solas sighed, his breath shaking as he exhaled. “Ariala,” he whispered. It was undoubtedly meant to be a reminder for the both of them, a plea for her to keep her distance.

Instead, there was heat trapped in his voice, wrapped around the syllables of her name. It slid down her spine like the softest silk, raising goosebumps across her arms. Ariala lifted her hand, unable to resist the sudden urge to feel his skin again, and rested her fingertips against his cheek. Solas swallowed.

 _The Dread Wolf_ , she thought abruptly, and the warmth spreading through her belly extinguished. Now she remembered what she’d wanted to say, and she dropped her hand. “You killed Flemeth, didn’t you? That’s why Ghilan’nain said you have Mythal’s magics.”

His silence was the only answer she needed. “Would you have told me?” she whispered, unable to keep the betrayal in her voice at bay. She knew the answer already. _Pick the fights you can win, remember your goals, and do nothing that does not further them._ He had killed the All-Mother for her power—that had to be the reason for the Well’s silence. She could think of no other explanation.

“No. I did not expect to see you again.”

The cold spring air prickled through her again, and she swallowed. “You control the Well now, don’t you.” It was not a question. He hesitated for a moment, nodded, and disgust reared its head in her throat. She swallowed again, her mouth dry, and pulled further from him. “Am I here because you want me here, or because I want to be here?”

“I—” He hesitated. She had only seen him do it one other time, before he’d confessed his love on the balcony. Everything she knew about Solas ( _not Solas,_ her mind screamed, _Trickster Dread Wolf goddamn Betrayer_ ) was calm, controlled, courteous. He was never unsure. “I don’t know.” Quieter, “And it sickens me.”

It sickened her as well. If she loved the man who controlled her free will, was it even love? She didn’t want to think about the answer to that question.

Ariala stood up, her heart racing under her ribcage. “I need to leave.”

“Ma nuvenin,” he replied. His words were so quiet she almost didn’t hear them. Almost. Her footsteps were quick as she left the garden; no foreign weight held her back to stay at his side. _Broken hearts still beat_ , she told herself. _The river moves around the boulder_.

Ariala breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the staircase and found her room. Her sleep was, mercifully, black and dreamless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on nydha - good night  
> dar'atisha - go in peace  
> ma nuvenin - as you wish


	6. Chapter 6

Ariala woke up to see Andruil lounging on the other side of the bed, her knees knocking together as she rolled onto her side. Golden eyes, wide and alert, stared at her and she forgot to breathe. “Finally,” said the huntress. “I’ve been here since dawn, waiting for you to wake up.”

Ariala found her voice, trying to hide how much the goddess’s sudden appearance startled her. “My lady… what are you doing here?”

“I will not leave Ghilan’nain to stay in this place alone,” Andruil replied. “And you cannot travel the woods in dresses. You will wear what extras she and I have.”

She sat up and gestured to the wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. Ariala got out of the bed, lifting the trunk’s lid to see a handful of hunting outfits. Vests, jackets, shinguards, vambraces, and more. At Andruil’s behest, she tried everything on—Ghilan’nain was smaller than her, and Andruil taller, so nothing fit quite right. But it was better than nothing.

After she’d tried on everything, Ariala couldn’t stop herself from beaming at the goddess as she carefully folded the last article of clothing and put it back in the trunk, once more in her loose shift. “Thank you, my lady, truly. I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

Andruil watched her, her expression unreadable. Without another word, she rolled across the bed and stood up on the other side, walking toward the pillars. Ariala bit her lip, debating with herself, then shook her head and called out—“My lady, please, if it’s not too much trouble—”

Andruil huffed, stopping but not turning around. “What more do you need?”

Ariala smiled. “I need a bow.”

* * *

Ghilan’nain’s pants were first. Ariala hooked the stirrups under her heels, jumped a few times to get the fabric over her hips, and tied the laces when the leathers were settled on her waist. Over the legs she slid on the thigh-high leather-knit greaves. She pulled her left greave to the side and slid a small dagger into its hidden pocket.

After Corypheus, after all the rifts had been sealed, there had been less need for force and more need for politics. Dressing for the wilderness had once been routine, but now her movements were slow and stiff, more used to lacing corsets than outfitting armor. They would probably wonder why she took so long. _Fumbling like a shem. Cut off the points of your ears and you’ll be just like them._

Ariala frowned at her line of thought, pulling Andruil’s forest-green tunic over her head. She shrugged on Ghilan’nain’s vest and laced it together, then strapped on Andruil’s quiver. Taking a deep breath, she turned to her bow.

It was a simple shortbow. One of Andruil’s many, and her professed least favorite. That still did not impact her awe. Ariala was almost afraid to touch it. _You’re being ridiculous_ , she told herself, but her hands continued to hover over the wood, intricately carved with halla horns, vines, and swirls.

She exhaled in a rush and lifted it—it was lighter than her own bow, but the curve of the wood fit into her hand like it had been made for her. Though she was alone, Ariala bit her lip to hide her smile. She turned on her heel and lifted her bow, plucking the string and notching an invisible arrow.

Muscle memory. Her form was a little rusty, but it was nothing that couldn’t be remedied. Ariala slung her bow across her back and tied her hair into her usual bun. As usual, a few loose strands fell free to frame her face. She left them there and ran to the courtyard.

Dirthamen and Solas were waiting for her in the courtyard. Both men had their staffs on their back, and Ariala could see the telltale lump of a dagger underneath Dirthamen’s cloak. How long had they been in the courtyard? “King to F7,” said Dirthamen, greeting her with a nod. He was already astride his halla, and Solas held two bridles in his hand.

Ariala bit her lip to keep herself from laughing. Of course they were playing chess. Of _course_. What else did the Lord of Secrets and Bringer of Nightmares have to do with their time?

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” she said, taking Solas’s hand when he offered it. Solas helped her mount the halla, and she had to adjust for a moment until she was comfortable—the halla she rode was thinner than any horse she’d ridden, and bonier. It made her miss her hart.

“You did not, Ariala,” Solas assured her, sitting astride his own mount. Dirthamen cast a glance at them and urged his buck forward. The halla doe she was on followed at once, not needing any signals from her. Ariala watched the temple give way to nature, and shivered when the barrier shielding the temple from the world passed over her skin.

Once they were truly in the woods, heading southwest, Solas spoke again. “Knight to H6.”

Dirthamen was smiling. Ariala couldn’t resist a smile of her own, either. Listening to him play mental chess was so familiar it ached. “King to E7.”

“Knight to E8. Checkmate.”

“Incorrect. King to F7.” Dirthamen sounded far too smug for a man who had just been checked. Ariala had given up on trying to envision the board when she heard how fast their responses were—where Iron Bull and Solas’s games were drawn out and methodical maneuvers across the battlefield, Dirthamen and Solas were rapid-fire guerrilla wars.

“Knight to H6.” Solas stared at the back of his opponent’s head, his eyes narrowed. “This game will go in circles, Dirthamen.”

“Yes,” the Lord of Secrets agreed amiably.

“Stubborn as ever, I see,” Solas returned, with a slight sigh. “Knight to E8. Check.”

“Forfeit the King. You’ve improved, Trickster. That was the first time you’ve beaten me in… what, three thousand years? _Very_ good.”

“Ha ha,” Solas said, flatly.

Ariala snorted, her hand lifting to cover her mouth even as she laughed. Dirthamen turned his head and his expression turned smugger, if it was possible. Solas had looked vaguely annoyed, but at the sight of her amusement his lips tugged into a small, wry smile. “I am glad to see you’re amused,” he told her, his tone dry but lacking its usual sarcasm. “Even if it is at my expense.”

Ariala’s smile widened.

“It’s not hard, I’m sure,” Dirthamen intoned.

Before Solas could snap out a retort, Ariala cleared her throat. “My lord Dirthamen, if you have a moment,” she said, casting a sly glance at Solas. “Pawn to E4.”

“Pawn to E5,” Dirthamen said. The speed of his reply stunned her. Even though he was in front of her and hadn’t looked back once, she still glanced away to hide her expression. She configured the board in her head—it was much more difficult when she was playing, instead of just listening to random pieces—and made her next move.

Thirty minutes later, she had taken two of his pawns, and he had a handful of her own pieces. Ariala pictured the board in her head and began to say, “Pawn to—”

Solas shook his head slightly, a bare trace of movement she caught out of the corner of her eye. “Um,” she corrected, frowning at him. If she didn’t move her pawn, since apparently that was the wrong choice, she could just… she lifted her gaze, trying to think of other alternatives. “Mage…”

Solas smiled, and she took one of Dirthamen’s knights. Dirthamen laughed when she announced the kill with triumph in her voice. “Dread Wolf,” he chided, shaking his head. “How could you?” And then he promptly took her mage, reminding her _why_ she’d chosen the pawn.

“Yes, how could you?” Ariala asked, laughing again. The situation wasn’t really that funny, but she had latched on to the light moment and sunk her teeth in. Now nothing short of the Breach reopening would stop her grin. “I’m feeling a little… betrayed.”

She said it with a smile, but Solas flinched as if she’d screamed it at him. He recovered, the pain in his eyes flickering, and he replaced the look with an exasperated stare. She’d seen it directed at Sera, at Vivienne, and even at Dorian, more times than she remembered. She’d only been on the receiving end of it once.

 

They were resting by the waterfall in the Emerald Graves, fresh from dragon-slaying. Ariala was washing the dragon’s blood off of her skin, Bull was helping the Inquisition forces dissect the corpse a half-mile away, and Solas and Dorian were resting and recovering their mana.

Ariala took off her armor until she was in nothing but her breastband and smalls, dropped her bow and shrugged off her quiver, and waded into the water. She took a deep breath, half-listening to their conversation, and cupped water over her head, allowing it to trickle down her face and neck, washing away the blood.

“While we’re sharing surprises,” said Dorian, in a tone of voice that meant he was annoyed, “you’ve done a lot less _dancing naked in the moonlight_ than expected.”

Ariala snorted a laugh, her hands stilling as they combed through her wet hair. Solas’s sigh was audible, even from her place in front of the waterfall. “Tevinter lore about elves remains accurate as always.”

Dorian sighed with abject and melodramatic sorrow. “I wanted to see you make flowers bloom with your song. Just once.”

Ariala splashed more water onto her face and shook her head, huffing a laugh. “Gentlemen,” she declared a moment later, unable to resist butting into their conversation. She turned around and swam toward them, wading when the ground came up to meet her. She grabbed her bloody shirt and dragged it into the pond. “Why don’t you ask the only Dalish elf present? Solas, I’m surprised—you haven’t seen the joyous revels of our ancestors in the Fade? Not even once? No?”

Solas opened his mouth, then snapped it shut when she grinned at him. She wrung her shirt and turned to her best friend. “Dorian, it is my _pleasure_ to tell you the stories of my people. Our earliest legend states that the elves first met the gods when they came down to show us how to dance. They all held hands around a large bonfire and moved in a circle under the night sky. Now, every full moon, we are compelled to dance naked with every Dalish elf we see, or else Falon’Din will chuck our departed souls into the Void as eternal punishment. As for the blooming flowers…” her grin widened when she saw Solas’s bemusement, and she couldn’t resist winking at him. “That’s a tale for another time.”

She had never seen Solas roll his eyes. But the look he gave her was so exasperated he might as well have.

 

“Clever,” he deadpanned.

Ariala grinned. “I try.”

Now that Dirthamen knew of his involvement, Solas openly helped her with the chess game. Even with his help, Dirthamen still beat her handily. “We must work on your strategy, Ariala,” said Dirthamen, tossing her a smirk over his shoulder. Ariala agreed readily, laughing at her easy admittance. When the god in front of her turned back around, her gaze slid to Solas.

She still didn’t know where they stood—there were too many unanswered questions between them. Too many wild cards. Never mind the fact that he had killed the All-Mother for her power. Never mind that she was now, technically, his creature, no matter how much he wanted to deny it.

But his aid with the game still felt like a peace offering. She was content to take it.

* * *

It was early evening when they reached the outskirts of Val Royeaux. They emerged from a forest and saw a dirt road a little ways ahead of them, accompanied by a signpost pointing north. The men dismounted, and Ariala followed their lead without any questions—as Inquisitor, she had ridden her hart everywhere with only a few raised eyebrows. Three dirty, nameless elves who rode halla would be a very different matter.

The halla doe turned liquid black eyes to Ariala, who smiled and rubbed her nose. When all halla’s saddles were empty, they turned as one and bounded back into the forest. Ariala watched them disappear between the trees and turned back to the men, adjusting the comforting weight of her bow. “Do you have money?”

“Indeed. Andruil and I became quite proficient pickpockets in Minrathous, especially when it came to those you call Magisters.” Dirthamen lowered his hood with one hand as he studied the sky, his face expressionless. “Come. We’ll be in Val Royeaux by nightfall.”

Together they made for the road, then turned north to Val Royeaux. It took them several hours to get there, and it was almost sunset by the time they actually reached the city gates. The guards let them pass onto the bridge without a second look.

As they crossed the bridge, Dirthamen took special care to examine each of the statues of Maferath. “A prophet betrayed by her love in exchange for power,” he mused, fingertips brushing against the vandalism on the base of one statue. “Curious, don’t you think, Dread Wolf?”

“No less curious than a madman betraying his love for his own power, I suppose,” said Solas, with the same mildly barbed tone he’d used for Vivienne.

Dirthamen stiffened, his hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling shortly before he spun on his heel and lunged for Solas.

Ariala stepped between them, pressing both hands against Dirthamen’s shoulders, shoving him backward. “Enough!” she said, raising her voice. Her shout bounced between the repentant Maferaths. Dirthamen snarled at her, but his gaze was on Solas, silent and unmovable behind her.

“You defend him?” Dirthamen laughed, a cold, harsh sound that almost made her wince. He wrenched away from her and scowled. “You don’t even know what he speaks of, you _idiot_ girl.”

Ariala had stared down dragons, demons, and would-be gods. She _refused_ to be cowed by a temper tantrum, even from a Creator.

Again, she stepped between the two. “True enough, but I don’t need to know everything to see that he shouldn’t have said it.” She turned her glare on Solas, who lowered his gaze. “Apologize.”

Dirthamen spat on the ground. “Save your words, Dread Wolf. I want nothing from you. We have work to do.” He turned, but Ariala caught his arm. He turned back to her with murder in his eyes—it was almost enough to make her let him go.

She stared at the elf in front of her, refusing to back down. “My lord. You may think me an idiot, but know this: I am a woman, not a child.”

Dirthamen scowled and jerked out of her grasp, continuing his trek to the city’s heart.

Ariala turned back to Solas, crossing her arms over her chest. “What was that about?” she whispered, her gaze flicking to Dirthamen. He had not slowed or even checked to see if they were following him.

Solas sighed through his nose. “A painful memory. I was a fool to mention it,” he admitted, turning to follow Dirthamen, and she joined him. He lowered his voice and took a step closer to her, until their arms almost brushed as they walked. She pretended she didn’t notice their proximity. “Be careful. He is a dangerous man, and lethal when angered.”

They caught up to Dirthamen, but the rest of the walk to the nearest inn was silent.

The streets were quiet and almost empty, something she had never seen before in Val Royeaux. She blamed it on the time. The sunset had deepened, and the sky had turned from rose gold to deep pink and orange. Still, she couldn’t help but feel as though there was a strange tension in the air, and every time they passed a dark alley or boarded-up windows she could feel foreign eyes on her.

By the time they found an inn with the room and the willingness to board elves, the sky was blueish grey and darkening by the minute. The innkeep handed Ariala the key to the attic room and gruffly warned them not to steal anything, or else he would know.

Dirthamen eyed the man with obvious disgust, but said nothing until they reached their room in the attic. Termites had taken a toll on the wooden beams supporting the ceiling, and the two beds—one suitable for a person, and the other big enough for two—had dust and crumbles from the roof on their sheets. A half-melted candle stood on an end table, alongside a cracked and empty metal washbasin.

“Don’t steal anything,” Dirthamen repeated, sitting on the single bed and frowning as it squeaked. He stood up and lit the candle with his fingertip. “There is nothing in this hovel to steal. Are all elves treated as such in Orlais?”

“Surely you saw worse in Tevinter,” said Solas, laying his pack on the floor.

“I was not asking you.”

“More or less,” Ariala said, sighing. At least the attic had a window. She uncrossed her arms and strode over, opening it and breathing in the fresh night air. “The city elves live in walled-off places we call alienages. They’re so poor elves are known as ‘the people who excel at poverty.’ There have been attempts to make their lives better, but… it hasn’t worked so well.” She thought of Lydes and shook her head.

“What a disgrace.” He sounded sincere. It lightened her heart a bit. Maybe the gods intended to help the elves after all.

Ariala shrugged. “Some have it so bad they run off to join Dalish clans.”

“And how do the Dalish treat these city elves?” asked Dirthamen. Solas made a sardonic noise that made his feelings on the matter clear. She ignored him.

“It depends on the clan. Some see them as elves who willingly turned their back on the old ways. Others take them in and treat them as they would anyone of the clan. My own clan took in anyone who wanted to join. I had several friends who used to be city-elves.”

Dirthamen did not ask anything after that, and Ariala settled for watching the twilight fade in silence. She knew she should rest—no doubt Dirthamen had plans for the next day—but she could still feel the ghosts of hidden eyes on her skin. She was not a jittery woman, but something about the nighttime quiet of the city had unsettled her.

Night had long fallen in Val Royeaux by the time she stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the double bed. Just as she leaned over to unlace her boots, the bells of the Grand Cathedral began to chime. The sound rang out, not the leisurely toll of the time, but something far more urgent.

“The traitor Briala has been captured!” a crier shouted, his voice carrying over the rooftops. “Come and see the rabbit queen at her end!”

The knells continued, low and ominous, and Ariala smelt smoke on the breeze.


	7. Chapter 7

Dirthamen was the first one at the window, his blue eyes gleaming as he watched the scene unfold below him. Ariala stood up and joined his side, placing her hands on the window and leaning over the ledge. “Who is Briala?” he asked her, crossing his arms.

“She’s—” she stopped. _I’m just a Dalish elf_ , she reminded herself. “She’s rumored to be the political leader of the city-elves. I don’t… really know all that much.”

Dirthamen said nothing, and Ariala turned her gaze back to the city streets below.

A retinue of guards wearing Gaspard’s heraldry was parading through the streets, carrying bobbing torches to light their way. Behind the two-by-two columns, two horses were pulling a cage. She could not see inside it, but the very sight of the bars made gooseflesh ripple across her arms.

“We have to get down there,” she breathed, turning on her heel and striding to her discarded weapons. She strapped on her quiver and slung her bow across her shoulders, her thoughts racing as fast as the blood thrumming under her skin. Ariala still had need of the Ambassador—she wouldn’t allow her execution. She couldn’t. If that meant Gaspard’s fury, then—so be it.

She flexed her left hand, covered by her shooting glove, and turned on her heel, running out of the room without looking to see if the other elves were following her.

The innkeep had abandoned his post, and when she entered the streets, people were already coming out of their homes. Some were human, others wore masks even at this time of night—but most disturbing were the sheer amount of _elves_. They stuck to the shadows, but the lamplights that lined the streets outlined some of their faces in orange and red.

Ariala turned and saw the torchlights turn a street corner. “Hurry,” she hissed over her shoulder, hoping that Dirthamen and Solas were behind her. She didn’t check to see if they were. There was no time. She ran.

 

Gaspard cradled Anora to his chest. Despite the chill between the pair ten minutes ago, Gaspard now acted as if Anora had been the love of his life. The ballroom was still stunned into silence, processing the assassination. The Queen had not been dead for two minutes before Lady Monette was on her feet, ordering her guards to search the Palace for other assassins.

Cassandra drew her sword and rejoined Leliana’s side; the Divine was already making her way over to the royal couple to administer the last rites. Gaspard laid Anora on the ground, his mask hiding whatever emotions he felt. As Leliana knelt by the Queen’s side and began to pray, two of Monette’s soldiers burst back into the ballroom, dragging a sobbing elf between them.

“Mercy, Majesty. Mercy,” he cried. “I only did what I was told t’ do!”

“Why?” Gaspard asked. Not even his golden lion’s mask could hide the rage in his voice. “Do you even know what you’ve done? Who ordered you to do this?”

“Br-Briala,” gasped the elf. “It was Briala, Majesty!”

Briala stood across the room, holding a wine glass as she observed from the shadows. At the elf’s confession, all eyes turned upon the Marquise, and the wine glass shattered in her hand.

 

Ariala was panting when she caught up to the retinue, but by then the streets were so crowded she could only see the top bars of the cage. Cries of “traitor!” and slurs filled the air, but far more ominous were the city-elves that followed the cage in silence.

Ariala pushed past several Orlesians and broke through the forefront of the crowd. Briala still wore her gown from the wedding. The sky-blue silk was ripped and bloody. Several of the white flowers sewn onto the hem were missing. Her dark brown hair curled over her far shoulder, exposing a long gash on her cheek that wound down to her collarbone. The Marquise herself was hunched over, acknowledging nothing but the floor beneath her curled fingers.

The cage itself was wrought iron, and it rattled with every clack of the horses. But that was not what caught Ariala’s attention—it was the straw on the floor and the crude, half-filled water trough behind Briala. The guards were transporting her in a cage meant for transporting an exotic animal to Gaspard’s zoo.

No human prisoner would have been treated as such, she was certain of it.

Ariala gritted her teeth and surged forward, wrapping her hands around the iron bars. “Briala—”

“Oi! Hands off, rabbit!”

Something cold and hard cracked across her face, and Ariala’s head snapped to the side before she processed what had happened. She released the bars with a cry and stumbled back, falling to her knees as pain burst across half her face. Her ears rang and she could feel wetness on her cheek. When she touched her face, her fingertips came back dark and wet.

Someone held out a hand. Ariala looked into the stormy face of an unknown city elf and took it gratefully, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “Best save your arrows, lass. We’ll need them tonight,” said the city elf, casting a dark glance toward the soldiers. Ariala followed his gaze and saw a soldier reattaching his gauntlet. She had to wonder if he would be so casual if he knew he’d just struck down the so-called herald of his Maker.

The city elf kept walking, and Ariala touched her stinging cheek again. _We’ll need them tonight_ —what did he mean? Surely the elves weren’t considering… no. It was madness. Val Royeaux’s alienage would face the same fate as Halamshiral.

People wove around her, some praying for the traitor, some silent, others calling for Briala’s head—all the while, the guards kept moving, and Ariala’s feet felt like lead. _Move_ , she told herself, even as blood from her swelling cheek snaked across her jaw and trickled down her throat. _You have to catch up_.

Briala was instrumental. Briala was her ally. Without her, Ariala would have no hope of helping the elves of Orlais.

A raven cawed, and she lifted her head to see its faint outline soar above the city’s rooftops. She licked the blood from her lips and forced her sluggish legs to move. Her pace grew faster and faster until she was sprinting through the bodies, weaving around elves, half-listening to the shouts of the crowd. Just before she reached Briala again, the procession stopped, and one of the soldiers unsheathed his sword. “Get out of our way, woman. I’ll not ask you twice.”

A woman stood in front of the procession, dressed in rags and wringing her hands. She was elderly, with stringy white hair falling out from underneath her nightcap. “Please, messeres, what crimes has she committed? What will happen to our Ambassador?”

“Knife-ears, can’t understand a damn thing,” muttered the soldier who’d hit her. Ariala maneuvered herself until she could see the man who appeared to be the leader of the guard. Briala had not moved.

“This woman,” said the captain, pointing at Briala, “is guilty of the crimes of regicide and plotting to kill our beloved Emperor, crowned by the Herald of Andraste herself. Not only has she spat upon the honor of her country, she has also ignored the Maker’s will. She will await execution in a place you people cannot reach.”

“You people?” someone muttered behind her.

“Better than knife-ear,” another replied.

Briala shot to her feet, the movement so sudden it startled one of the guard’s horses. The Marquise wrapped her hands around the bars and rattled them, her teeth half-bared. “I am innocent,” she proclaimed. “But no court will believe me, because of my dirty blood and my pointed ears. I ask you, is that justice?”

“The assassin named you as his employer,” replied the captain.

“The assassin _lied!_ ”

The torchlight flickered, and when Ariala blinked, the square they had stopped in was filled with city-elves. A few wore splendid masks; the disguises’ finery clashed with the rags they wore. Ariala tried to find a human in the crowd and failed. The Grand Cathedral’s bells continued to chime out a series of low, mournful tones. It reminded her of a requiem. In silence, she began to move through the crowd, so that she had a side view of Briala instead of a frontal.

The guards seemed to notice the increase in elves as well, and the ones flanking the cage drew closer to the cage. The man who had hit Ariala dismounted, pulled out a dagger and pointed it at the Marquise through the bars.

“Call off your rabbits,” he ordered Briala, “or we’ll kill you right here.”

“You could try,” Briala retorted, her brown eyes flashing. In a blur of movement, she grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled him forward. Before anyone could react, she wrenched the dagger from his hand and slid the blade into his throat like his skin was water. Ariala saw Briala wait a moment, then pull the blade out.

Sky blue dress and freckled brown skin were bathed in a fountain of blood. Shocked gasps arose from the crowd, and several soldiers drew their weapons. The captain issued a sharp command in Orlesian, and one of the soldiers shot him an incredulous look. Ariala held her breath.

Briala gripped her dagger in one burgundy hand and retreated to the center of the cage, where no sword could reach her. The city-elves pressed closer, so close that several of them brushed against Ariala, and she could feel the daggers hidden beneath their clothes.

“Get the prisoner out of here!” called the captain, unsheathing his sword and swinging it in a wide arc toward the city-elves. “And you lot—you’ll scatter if you know what’s good for you!”

“She killed Gerard!” one of the soldiers cried out, tightening his hold on his horse’s reins. His face looked murderous in the firelight, and he shot a venomous glare at the elderly woman, who still had yet to move. One of the elves noticed and started for her, and Ariala slowly fished an arrow out of her quiver.

“Oui, and she’ll pay for it. We have our orders—”

“Fuck the orders! These vermin aren’t worth it!” The soldier gave his horse a savage kick, and it whinnied in terror before it bolted forward, straight toward the old woman.

Ariala aimed, trying to push past the elves blocking her shot, but none of them moved for her. She watched, helpless, as the horse bore down on the woman.

At the last moment, she was swept away by a blur of white and blue. Solas appeared three feet away, holding the woman in his arms as he looked over his shoulder to watch. Ariala watched as the elf who’d tried to reach the woman in time was tramped under the horse’s hoofs. He had no time to scream. The horse stumbled, but quickly righted itself and reared up onto its hind legs, kicking several elves in the head. The rogue soldier hacked at any within his blade’s reach, ignoring his captain’s shouts and the elves’ screams. All the while, the crowd seemed paralyzed, helpless to do anything. Fear sharpened the air, and Ariala tasted bile in the back of her throat.

“Stop him!” Briala shouted, but the captain ignored her. His face was shadowed from the torchlight, concealing his expression, but he did nothing to stop his man. Ariala sucked in a breath between her teeth and started pushing through the crowd.

Another elf wailed in the night, and someone behind her yelled, “Somebody, do _something_!”

Ariala shoved someone aside, stepping into a small clearing without any bodies between her and the soldier. She notched her arrow again and raised her bow, taking aim and releasing the arrow. It sailed through the night sky and speared the soldier’s exposed throat.

The man slumped over, dead, and she felt a thousand eyes upon her. Silence descended upon the city for a moment. Even the bells stopped their lament. A heartbeat passed, and then Briala shouted, “The Inquisitor is with us!” and the silence shattered around her.

The air smelled like smoke and blood as the city-elves surged forward.


	8. Chapter 8

The guard captain stood no chance. The horde of furious elves pulled him from his panicking horse and barraged him with fists and kicks—at some point, she heard a crunch, and the elves turned to the next member of the guard. A soldier tried to ride through the crowd, but Solas froze his outstretched arm and the weight of his ice-encased hand made him slow and easy prey for the mob.

Ariala watched the chaos in silence, her breaths coming ragged and sharp. What had she done? Once word broke out—and it would, there was a chance the city watch was on its way already—the elves here would be slaughtered. The politicians would point to Val Royeaux and Denerim for proof of reason that the elves could never have peace with the humans.

And with her arrow, she had doomed whatever plans they’d had. Void take her.

Solas joined her side and reached for her, but seemed to think better of it. His eyes scanned the rooftops as he said, “Are you all right?”

She nodded, breathless, and watched the last guard go down. He died screaming, and when his cries cut off with a wet gurgle an eerie silence descended over the square. One by one, the mob extinguished the torches the guards had carried, and other elves broke away to do the same with the street lamps. The moon was covered by thick, rolling clouds; to a human, it would seem pitch black, but to an elf it was just a little darker than any normal night.

It was calm, methodical, organized. Utterly unlike the unruly gathering that had killed a dozen humans in a pique of rage. Something was amiss, but Ariala couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

An elf fumbled at the captain’s body and produced a ring of keys with a jubilant shout. “I have it!” he cried, and the crowd parted for him, creating a path to Briala’s cage. He ran to the bars and fumbled with the lock. By the time he found the correct key to free the Marquise, the whole square was dark.

“Where is the Inquisitor?” Briala asked, her voice carrying.

Ariala wet her lips, exchanged a glance with Solas, and moved past the elves in her way. “Your Worship”s and “My lady”s followed after her footsteps, which she did her best to ignore. She reached the Marquise and slung her bow over her back, crossing her arms.

Briala wiped her dagger on her bloody skirt and inspected the blade, her dark eyes gleaming in the night. “Inquisitor. I’m glad you’re still alive. We need your help.”

Ariala almost said no. If she walked away from—from this madness, this riot brewing just under the surface, then she would keep the trust of the humans. They would listen to her pleas for the elves because she had proven, over and over, that every life was equal in her eyes, not just elven ones. This would be a setback, but she could recover. She could start her goals over from scratch.

She hesitated, and a boy tugged on her tunic. He was a little blonde thing, only came up to Ariala’s waist, and even in the darkness she could see the blue in his eyes. “You’re going to help us, aren’t you, miss? Please?”

Ariala looked into the eyes of every elf whose features she could make out and swallowed. There were thousands of elves in Val Royeaux, and every one of them would be killed if she walked away. She couldn’t—she couldn’t do that to them. Not after Wycome.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked.

Satisfaction glinted in Briala’s eyes. “I must take my people to the safehouse. A guard escaped, down that street.” She pointed. “We didn’t notice until it was too late. He’s going to bring the city watch here, and he’ll do it soon. I need you to hold them off for as long as possible.”

Ariala blinked. “A whole city watch? How long is long?”

“You’ve faced worse, Inquisitor. My people will need half an hour at least,” said Briala. She looked over her shoulder and raised her voice. “Those of you who can, move! Every minute is precious.”

Elves began to slip away. Others mounted the horses and helped the ones who couldn’t walk as fast up to sit behind or in front of them. One elf helped the elderly woman and the little boy to sit on the same horse. Ariala watched and realized—not a single horse had been harmed. Even when they were panicking and kicking people in the heads, no one had tried to cut them down to save the other elves. _Safehouse_ , Briala had said, and Ariala realized why this whole situation had seemed off.

She’d planned this. The Marquise had planned—

Ariala lunged for Briala, shoving the woman against the cage. The wheels rattled and it rolled backwards. A few elves who still lingered jumped, their hands moving to their concealed weapons, but Briala shot them a look and they left with a few worried glances.

Ariala hardly noticed them. She grabbed Briala’s sleeves, fisting the delicate fabric and ignoring the small rips that split among the seams. Anger burned in her blood. How could she think that this was a good idea? Elven rebellions had never gotten the People anywhere. Never. What was she—

“What are you _thinking_ , Briala?” Ariala screamed at the Marquise. “You’re ruining _everything!_ ”

Couldn’t the idiot see? If the elves rioted, everything they’d done would be no better than dust. All of their progress would be lost in the instant news left the city. All of it. The alienage walls would go back up. Humans would see the elves as a lost cause, claim they were better off in the filth with the vermin. The People would return to the squalor, and the humans would crush them under their heels with renewed vigor.

Just like Wycome. Just like Denerim. Just like her clan.

Briala grabbed Ariala’s wrists and smoothly pulled her hands away, ripping off the dress’s sleeves in the process. Ignoring the loss, the elven ambassador bent to pick up her dagger and straightened, the defiance in her eyes betraying her outward calm.

“I am doing something you have never done, Inquisitor,” she said, taking a step away from the cage. “I am looking out for my people.”

Ariala surged forward again—in a moment, Solas was there, his grip on her wrists the only thing preventing her from clawing out the elf’s eyes. He wrapped his arms around hers and pulled her flush against his chest. Briala leveled a cool stare at her once ally, then turned and ran into the darkened alleyway, following the rest of the vanished elves. Ariala jerked against Solas, her fingers curling into her palms, but he did not loosen his hold.

Solas’s breath was soft against her face, and she hated how it sent a tingle down her spine. He pulled away from her and turned her around until she was fully facing him. His hold on her wrists was gentle but unyielding, no matter how often she tried to wrench away. At last she stilled, clenching her jaw, and Solas tilted his head slightly, trying to get her to look at him. “If I release you, will you be rational?”

“ _Ma nuvenin_ , master,” she spat in return, and he released her like he’d been burned. The change was so sudden she looked up. He was stricken, guilt written in his eyes and drawn in the lines of his face, but she was too angry to apologize. Maybe she’d do so later, if she wasn’t killed saving Briala’s worthless hide.

 _Something you have never done?_ What was she talking about? _Ariala_ was the one who had supported the laws calling for the destruction of alienage walls and the expanded rights of Orlesian elves. _Ariala_ was the one who’d spent weeks visiting Orlesian nobles, buttering them up to the idea whilst trying to breathe in a corset. The law never would have passed without _her_ support.

And—a safehouse. What did Briala intend to do with that? A safehouse couldn’t hold every fucking elf in Val Royeaux.

Ariala stepped over the guard captain’s body, watching every alleyway with a careful eye. “Where is Dirthamen?” she asked, unable to stop her snappish tone. Solas only shook his head, and when she scanned the square for his cloak, she saw nothing. Maybe he was too dark to see, even for elven eyes. She looked up at the cage, then at the street where the guards were supposed to appear. “Here, hoist me up.”

Solas knelt, threading his hands together, and when she stepped into his hands he pushed up, lifting her to the top of the cage. Ariala climbed on top of it and crouched down, kneeling on top of the cage and making herself as small a target as she could. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, readying herself for the fight.

There was no point in being angry right now. She could be angry later when her life wasn’t in danger.

“When they come,” she said, softly, “I want you to block off every exit with ice walls. No one escapes. The elves must get to the safehouse.”

Solas nodded. “And how will we know if they succeed?”

“We won’t,” she said, unable to stop her scowl. “Thirty minutes. We hold the guard off as long as we can.”

The city was quiet, with only the cicadas to keep the silence company. Ariala listened to her breathing and stilled, pressing one hand flat against the cage’s roof. She closed her eyes, feeling the tips of her ears flick as they tried to capture any extra sound.

She stayed like that for ten minutes, breathing in and out, waiting for sound of the city guard. At last, they came—the faint sound of boots, not in an orderly march but in a sprint. Ariala opened her eyes and saw the faint orange glow of torches, smelled blood and smoke as they drew nearer. “Get ready,” she whispered, unslinging her bow and pulling an arrow from her quiver. The frost rune on the arrowhead activated, ice spreading over the metal in blue flower-shaped bursts.

A retinue of the city watch rounded the corner. Their run slowed to a confused walk upon seeing the dark, abandoned square. Ariala used their confusion to scan a quick account of bobbing helmets. Twenty, maybe thirty men. All wore Gaspard’s black lion over their chainmail, which protected their neck and joints. Their helmets left their faces bare. The only surefire way to kill them would be to shoot their eyes every time, an impossible feat even for the greatest archer.

She’d have to go in on foot, use everything she’d learned from Heir and Bull and Zevran. Even with Solas at her side—she gritted her teeth, banishing that thought. Briala needed time. Briala would get her time.

“Where are the elves?” asked one man. Another raised his torch and stepped forward, squinting at the darkness. Solas moved behind the cage, and Ariala pulled her bowstring taut.

The man who was taking the lead took another hesitant step forward, swinging his torch in the direction of the cage. Ariala tensed as the firelight illuminated her, and the guard’s eyes narrowed. “There’s two of ’em, archer and unarmed. Probably trying to hold us off. Do you even know how to use a bow, rabbit? Tell us where the others went and we’ll let you go.”

Ariala took a quick glance at Solas—he had put his staff on the ground, hiding it from their view. She half-smiled and turned back to the soldiers, taking a breath. Another man squinted at her and gasped, taking a step back and reaching for his sword. Ariala turned her bow towards him. “Maker, that’s the—”

Ariala released the arrow. Miraculously, it found its target: the arrow speared his eye, and his revelation cut off with a strangled scream. One guard took a step backward and his back bumped up against an ice wall, raised behind the group in silence. A fire glyph glowed beneath their feet and exploded, scattering balls of flame and setting their armor on fire. “Mage!” someone screamed.

Ariala shot at two more guards and missed both. At that, she dropped her bow, vaulting off the cage and rolling when her feet hit the ground. The dirk behind her left greave was out the moment she stood up. A watchman had managed to put out the flames and was rushing toward her, his sword raised. Ariala waited—Heir and Krem had done this exact scenario with her—and sidestepped, crouching low to avoid his swinging sword. She shot up when he was close enough, one hand knocking his sword aside and the other driving the dirk into his eye.

The man screamed, dropping his sword and going abruptly silent. Ariala pulled her dagger free and didn’t pause to watch the still-twitching body fall to the floor. She sought out Solas, her breath catching in her throat when she saw that several men were nearly upon him. Of course they’d go after him. An archer was no danger compared to a mage. She should have watched him. She should have made herself the biggest threat and protected him from this.

Ariala sprinted forward, her heartbeat hammering as she watched a man raise his sword and bring it down hard. Solas caught his blow with his staff, but the blade shattered the wood. Ariala scooped her bow from its discarded place on the ground and ran faster.

Another soldier stabbed at Solas—and his sword missed. Solas Fade-stepped out of the circle, skidding to a halt and falling to his hands and knees. For a moment, she thought that he’d been injured, and fear made her falter and stop. But then Solas was crouched over, his back arching, his eyes squeezing shut, and—the muscles under his skin began to ripple.

Ariala watched, horrified and frozen to the spot, as Solas became a hulking wolf. His fur was too dark for even her to see, so she could see only the faintest outline—and two glowing red eyes. The Dread Wolf fell upon what remained of the watchmen in a terrifying show of snapping teeth and flashing claws. Their screams were brief, but they rang in Ariala’s ears, and when the Wolf turned to her she stumbled back and tripped, landing hard on her back. Ariala ignored the pain in her muscles and scrambled backward, her eyes locked with the red orbs of the Wolf’s.

For the first time, she could taste the blood of the men she’d killed in her mouth. Smoke clung to her clothes and burned her nostrils. A low growl emanated deep in the Wolf’s chest, and he stepped on one of the soldier’s bodies as he moved toward her. The dead man’s bones cracked underneath the Wolf’s paw.

Ariala inhaled hard and moved backward until her back hit the bars of the cage. The clouds parted and the moon came out, shining upon the hulking monstrosity before her. Ariala scanned the blood-matted black fur, looked over the bloodstained silver claws that clicked upon the cobbles, glimpsed two curving fangs on each side of its snout. Fear curdled her blood, rushing in time with her heartbeat and chilling her skin. Her hands reached out to her side, fingertips brushing over the curve of her bow, but she couldn’t grab it. She could do nothing but close her eyes.

The wind whispered around her, and she dug her fingernails into her palms. “Ariala,” Solas said, his voice impossibly gentle. Ariala swallowed, her eyelids flickering as she opened her eyes and gazed up at him. Solas crouched in front of her, his eyebrows drawn and his eyes blue in the moonlight. He offered her both his bloodstained hands, and Ariala stared at them in silence.

“I will not harm you,” he murmured. “Never. You know this.”

“I didn’t believe,” Ariala replied, still staring at his hands. They were outstretched, open and ready, and all she needed to do was take them. Why couldn’t she do it? “I didn’t believe it, even with the Well and the temple. But it’s true. You’re really the Dread Wolf. Have you always been able to do that?”

“Yes and no. I have always had this form, but after I woke… I did not have the power required. I have grown stronger since the Inquisition.” He was still holding out his hands. Ariala swallowed, her eyes tracing every dried bloodstain in his skin. And then she looked at her own, still wet from her kills, and her gaze drifted to the bodies around them.

“They did not have to die,” she whispered. “Briala should not have done this.”

“Tonight was a senseless waste,” he agreed, but he did not mention his thoughts on Briala. Ariala stared down at his hands, then looked at hers. She closed her eyes and took a breath, placing her hands in his and allowing him to pull her to her feet. She turned to grab her bow, ignoring how slippery the wood was from the blood.

“You. Knife-ear.”

Ariala spun, lifting her bow and notching an arrow, freezing when she saw a guard had Solas in a deadlock, a knife pressed against his throat. His helmet was off, half of his face was pink from raw burns, and there were scratches dented into his armor. The man’s hand was trembling, and the shaking blade cut into Solas’s skin. Ariala pulled the bowstring taut and narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t know what he is, and I don’t rightly care,” said the soldier. He had a Ferelden accent and his voice shook. “But I want out of this alive. So let’s make a deal. You put that bow down and I don’t kill him.”

Electricity sparked among Solas’s fingertips. The man noticed and scowled, his knife pressing harder against Solas’s throat. “Counter offer,” said Ariala. Her arm strained with the effort of not releasing her arrow. “You let him go and we don’t kill you.”

“I have a son,” said the soldier, his voice cracking. Blood dripped down Solas’s neck. “Please. I don’t care about the elves, really. I’ll pretend I never saw you.”

A raven descended in a graceful glide behind him, landing on the ground in a cloud of silver smoke. Dirthamen rose in the bird’s place, nothing visible underneath his hood except for his blue eyes. “Liar,” he breathed, and before the soldier could react the Lord of Secrets had covered his eyes and slit his throat.

The soldier released Solas, blood bubbling on his lips as it gushed from his neck, and Ariala lowered her bow. The urge to rush forward and check him for injuries was a physical ache, but she stayed put. Solas rubbed his neck, and when he pulled his hand away the injury was healed. “Good timing,” Ariala said, forcing a smile, even as her gaze lingered on the dead Ferelden.

Dirthamen crouched and wiped his blade on the body. “The elves are safe,” he said, looking up. “I have learned all I wanted to know, and the sooner we leave this city, the better.”

“Agreed,” said Solas. They left the guards on the street and escaped the city in darkness.

It was only when Ariala had mounted her halla doe and urged her into a canter that she remembered she’d never gotten the chance to contact the Inquisition and let them know she was safe. _Well_ , she thought grimly, casting a look at Val Royeaux over her shoulder, _they’ll find out I’m alive soon enough_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariala and Dirthamen have a disagreement; Dorian Pavus wakes up, and the Inquisition's new spymaster has disturbing news out of Val Royeaux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, over 1000 hits! thank you to everyone who reads this and leaves kudos and/or comments - i love you lots :) enjoy this chapter!

When they camped, it was nearing dawn. When Solas offered to hunt for them, she did not protest. Ariala watched, stifling a yawn, as he dismounted his buck and melted into the forest, wrapping its shadows around him like a cloak. When he was gone, she dismounted as well, unhooking her bedroll from her doe’s saddle and laying it on the ground. She dropped her quiver and bow to the side and collapsed on the bedroll, watching Dirthamen unpack and search for firewood.

When he returned, he began to stack the wood into a neat pile, building a firepit. When that was done, he sat on the ground, back to her. Ariala rolled onto her back, watching the pink sky grow paler and shift to blue.

It was several moments before Dirthamen spoke. “What are you thinking about?”

She turned her head to see his face half-turned toward her, though his hood was still up and concealed his expression. His question surprised her—she had been waiting for him to bring up the fact that several elves had called her the Inquisitor. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that he had been out of earshot when it had happened.

“You,” she replied, truthfully. She couldn’t see his expression, but she had the strangest sensation that he was smiling.

“Oh? I’m flattered.”

The way he said it, as though she had confessed her love for him in a shy, stuttering whisper, made her narrow her eyes. She folded her hands over her belly and looked back at the sky.  “What are you going to do about the elves?”

“Many things.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Then perhaps you should ask better questions.”

Ariala turned to her side, propping her head up with her hand. She studied Dirthamen’s cloaked back, unmoving and relaxed, and tried again. “Where are the other gods? Where are Sylaise and Falon—”

Dirthamen turned around and raised a finger to his lips, his blue eyes burning underneath his hood. “Names have power, da’lath’in. Never forget that.”

Ariala raised her eyebrows at the term. Da’lath’in. Little heart. It was an endearment used for children who showcased their emotions without fear, or were sensitive to the plight of the world. She had been called that, once, when she was six. She’d come upon a dead baby bird that had fallen from its nest and cried for an hour. One of the hunters had found her and carried her back to camp, and that was the day she’d learned about death.

“They are on their own quests,” Dirthamen continued, turning back around, and the vagueness of his answer frustrated her enough that she forgot about his usage of the term.

“The People need you,” she said, her voice raising. She felt like she was arguing with Abelas again, half-expected Dirthamen to turn around and declare that she was not his people. “But you and the others in the temple just sit around and do nothing! My people pray to the gods daily. They’re convinced that one day you’re going to return and usher the elves out of poverty and slavery into an age of greatness. Is this the help we can expect?”

“What would you have us do?” asked Dirthamen. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded amused. Ariala glared at his back, even as he continued, his amusement turning caustic. “Would you have us sweep through Thedas with a conquering army and kill anyone who didn’t have a pair of pointed ears? Would you have us enslave the humans as retribution for their crimes against the People?”

“N-no,” she said, stunned by the ferocity of his tone. When she blinked, the ghostly raven’s wings sprouting from his back were quivering, and knots of pulsing red veins filled their empty space. The wings disappeared a moment later, quickly enough to make Ariala doubt they were ever there.

“Then what, pray tell, would you have us do?” he drawled.

Ariala stood up and circled around him, kneeling when they faced each other.  His eyes met hers, unwavering, and he smiled. She did not return it. “The gods are meant to protect the People. The elves need you, now more than ever. I would have you fulfill that purpose and do what you were meant to do, rather than wait in a temple and waste your days.”

As she stood up, he laughed, cold and harsh. “Is this the way all Dalish would treat their gods?”

“I cannot respect a man who sits on his ass and does nothing for the people he’s supposed to protect,” she snapped, “much less a so-called god.”

A throat cleared, and Ariala looked away from Dirthamen. Solas stood across the clearing, one eyebrow raised and three nugs in his hands. “Forgive the intrusion,” he said, raising the nugs like a peace offering. “I thought you might want some breakfast.”

* * *

He woke feeling as though he’d been bowled over by a druffalo stampede. Even the sunlight hurt his eyes, and his stomach felt as though it had burned from the inside out. The room smelt like vomit and the Fade, and the flowers on the windowsill did little to mask the odor. A woman slept in a bed across the room, red spots blooming on her side underneath her nightgown. He didn’t recognize anything—not the room and not his roommate. And for the life of it, he couldn’t remember where he was, or how he’d gotten there.

Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember anything. Oh, he knew objective things—he knew that the flowers on the windowsill were crystal grace, he knew that the kitten sitting on the woman’s stomach was a tabby, he knew what the Fade was and how it worked. But personal details. His name. His origins. His roommate’s identity.

He didn’t know a bloody thing. There was a gaping hole where his memory should have been, and every time he reached for the knowledge it retreated from him. When he gave up the chase, it returned to him, hovering over the precipice, close enough that it flavored the blood in his mouth.

The man tried to sit up and hissed another curse, his hand going to the tight gauze wrapped around his bare abdomen. Pain made white spots flare in his vision, and he summoned what rudimentary healing magic he knew to lessen the ache.

When he was able to breathe easily again, he kicked off the covers and stood up. His legs nearly gave up from the start. If not for the wall to lean on, he would have collapsed into an undignified heap right there on the floor. The man sniffed at the very thought and spared another glance at the woman. As if she could feel his gaze, she shifted onto her back with a pitiful moan. Her face shone with sweat, and there was an unhealthy pallor that colored her brown skin.

The man balanced himself by leaning on the bedspread, then reached for the far wall when he’d walked down the length of the bed. The action made his side twinge and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

He needed to find out where the hell he was, and why. Had he been mugged on the road? Perhaps the inhabitants of this house could tell him something. But walking was incredibly taxing. Just covering the distance to the door made sweat bead on his brow.

Fasta vass.

The man was panting by the time he reached the door. The door opened to a hallway with a banister, which he used as his leverage to leave his sickroom behind. He touched his tender side, probing the thick padding of gauze and staring at the dark red stains in the bandages. Another burst of amateur healing magic and he was gripping the banister with one white-knuckled hand.

“Hello?” he called, searching the empty house for clues. Plants on the windowsills, a black kitten snoozing at the tops of the steps, and—ah, there it was. An elaborate painting hanging on a wall downstairs, detailing some military feat with soldiers in Orlesian uniforms. So he was in Orlais.

How… marvelous. Suddenly he had a sour taste in his mouth, but he didn’t know why.

“Anyone here?” he tried again, hearing no movement. Something was—off. What had happened in the last few days? Again, he reached for the knowledge and came back grasping.

The front door open and an enormous Qunari entered the house. A blond man joined him and shut the door quietly behind him. The Qunari’s one eye found the man at once and his lips twitched in the hint of a smile. “Dorian. You’re awake. How you feeling?”

Dorian. Was that his name? He supposed it must be. “There’s a bleeding woman in my room,” he replied, tightening his grip on the banister as the world dipped around him. “I swear I’m not responsible.”

“Maker, not again,” whispered the blond. He ran up the stairs and dashed into the sickroom. Dorian watched him sit at the woman’s bedside and turned back to the Qunari.

“You know me, I suppose?”

“Uh… yeah. I do.” The Qunari somehow looked curious and even a little tentative. “My name’s the Iron Bull. What do you remember?”

“Nothing,” Dorian replied, swallowing a mouthful of blood. “I don’t remember a bloody thing.”

“Okay. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Dorian tried to think, but his world spun at his attempt and he clutched at the banister with a groan. The Iron Bull went up the steps and was at his side before he could recover. He’d never seen a man move so quickly. Bull placed a hand on his shoulderblade—despite its weight, it felt almost comforting. Dorian opened his eyes and swallowed again, wishing he had something with which to clean his teeth.

“All right, let’s get you back to bed,” Bull said, low and encouraging. Feeling rather like a child past his bedtime, Dorian allowed Bull to help him back to the sickroom, where the blond was unwrapping the bandages around the woman’s middle and whispering curses under his breath. He sat down heavily on his bed, wincing when it creaked, and Bull sat next to him.

“What happened to me?” he asked, straightening up. Something twinged in his side and he clenched his teeth.

“Saar-quamek,” Bull said. Dorian arched an eyebrow, waiting, and the Qunari continued, “It’s a poison. Meant to warp your mind. Makes you see crazy shit and throw your lunch up. By that point most people are dead. We’ve already lost everyone else who was poisoned. If it weren’t for Viv and Anders here working round the clock, you and Josephine would probably be dead.”

“I’m beginning to think we’re just delaying the inevitable,” muttered the blond, who must’ve been Anders. Dorian and Bull both glared at him, but the mage was too busy examining his patient to notice. Dorian could only assume Josephine was his roommate and Anders’ patient.

At some point Anders shook his head and walked outside, calling for someone named Krem to wake Vivienne. A red-haired woman appeared and cast a wan smile towards Dorian as she sat down beside Josephine and reached for a bowl on an end table. She pulled a wet rag out and wrung it, applying the damp cloth to Josephine’s forehead. “Dorian. It is good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Dreadful, but thank you for asking,” he said. Another woman, dark-skinned and carrying herself with a poise that he somehow knew his mother would’ve respected, strode into the room. She took one look at Josephine and tsked, shooing Anders away.

“Madame Vivienne, you’ve only had a few hours of sleep—” began Anders.

“Nonsense, darling, I am perfectly capable of controlling myself. You, however,” said Vivienne, ignoring the way Anders tensed. She picked up a lyrium potion from the dresser beside Josephine’s bed. She swallowed it all in a few seconds and knelt beside Josephine, watching the woman’s face carefully before she thumbed an eyelid and pulled up, revealing Josephine’s eye. “You are already sweating, apostate, and our lyrium is limited. Perhaps you should be the one getting rest, instead.”

“I’m not losing another patient while I sleep,” snapped Anders.

“Dalish’s death was not your fault,” said the redhead, wiping Josephine’s brow with the cloth. Vivienne carefully traced Josephine’s bleeding abdomen and pushed, her hands sparking with healing magic. At first, Josephine sighed, and her wounds—Dorian had a clear view of the pus-filled gashes underneath her breastband, though it did not help settle his queasy stomach—did not look so inflamed.

And then she whimpered a soft _no_ and started seizing. One of her hands smacked the redhead in the face and her legs kicked underneath the sheets. “This didn’t happen last time!” Anders cried. Vivienne shot him a venomous glare and saw Dorian for the first time.

“Dorian, be a dear and leave us,” she said. The way she turned around seemed to be a dismissal all on its own. When Dorian didn’t move, she continued, without turning around, “Bull?”

“On it, ma’am,” the Qunari replied. Lower, to Dorian, he said, “You don’t want to see this anyway.”

Bull was right. Dorian didn’t want to see it, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. Josephine was thrashing now, smacking people without opening her eyes and screaming. Bull grabbed his arm and helped him up, and together they left the room. Another blond man was there, and a woman with the Seekers’ symbol on her armor. Both had a hand on the swords at their hips. “We heard screaming,” said the man, his confidence wavering. “But…”

“Yeah, it’s Josephine. I think she’s having another hallucination.”

Josephine screamed again, and the woman’s face blanched. “How can you tell? If she is in pain…”

“I saw her hands. Her fingers were curled, not clenched, like she was holding a dagger instead of air.” Bull made a frustrated growl and shook his head. “Still, it was better when she was throwing things at us. Dorian, meet Cassandra and Cullen.”

“Meet—you do not know who we are?” asked Cassandra, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Bull, what does this poison _do_ to people?”

Bull shrugged. “I’ve never seen anyone survive the vomiting without conditioning themselves to saar-quamek first. This is as new to me as it is to you. Between me and you, I’m hoping he remembers soon. _Real_ soon.”

Cassandra gave him another incredulous look. Dorian managed to smile without showing any teeth; his mouth was still bloody and he doubted the others wanted to see such garishness. But before their conversation could continue, the door opened. Cassandra turned on her heel with a hopeful, “Varric, did you get the potions—?”

“Alas, dear Cassandra, I am not our storytelling friend,” said a stranger, his words half a drawl and richly Antivan. Dorian looked over the banister to see a wiry man in a black cloak shut the door behind him. He looked up, and in the shadow of his hood Dorian could make out a half-predatory smirk. “I am sorry to disappoint, but I will be sure to tell him how eagerly you awaited his return.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, rolling her eyes. Cullen fought back a smile and turned to the man. “Zevran. Have you found her yet?”

The smirk died as the man lowered his hood, revealing blond hair loose around his shoulders and a tattoo on the side of his face. A golden earring glinted in the lobe of one of his pointed ears. “Ah. Perhaps we should find a more private room in which to speak. Will Josephine or Leliana be joining us?”

Someone shrieked behind the door, followed by a sound remarkably similar to shattered glass. Anders cursed, and then the room quieted again. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Cullen, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can use my room.”

He and Cassandra turned to walk down the hallway, and Dorian went after them. They didn’t get very far, though, because Zevran soon joined Dorian’s side and said, “Ah! And you must be Dorian, yes? Your mustache is quite distinctive. The Inquisitor has said much about you, though I am sorry we never had a proper conversation before the wedding.”

Dorian licked his teeth, wishing he could clean them, and smiled thinly at the elf. “I haven’t the foggiest what you’re referring to. I woke up ten minutes ago an amnesiac.”

Zevran’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but Cassandra interrupted him. “Hm. I had not considered it, but you were—are—one of her best friends, Dorian. Even though you do not remember her, perhaps you will have an insight we will not. Iron Bull, would you like to join us as well?”

Bull threw his head back and laughed. “You couldn’t pay me. I’m just here to take orders, Seeker.” Still, he cast a worried look over at Dorian and didn’t move.

“I’ll be fine,” he told the Qunari, unsure why he felt the need to reassure him. “If I faint—”

“I will catch him,” interjected Zevran.

“—Zevran will catch me.”

Bull laughed again, and the sound made Dorian smile. “Yeah, yeah. I gotta check up on the boys, anyway. I’ll be around.” With that, he turned on his heel and went down the stairs, and Dorian managed to follow the group into another room without his world going topside.

Still, he took the liberty of sitting in one of the reading chairs. Zevran shut the door and turned back, leaning against the wood. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Tell us about the Inquisitor,” said Cullen. “Has she been seen? Anywhere?”

“Actually, yes. Our dear Sera sent me a bird while I was in Val Royeaux. Apparently a Friend found Ariala in the outskirts of Val Chevin. The Friend also sent some notes indicating other slaver cells—I shall give them to you when this is done, Cullen—but what was more interesting was the fact that two elves appeared soon after Ariala arrived. They rode halla but had no vallaslin. Sera’s contact believes Ariala was forced to go with them, but he did not know for sure, as the Inquisitor told him to leave her behind.”

Cullen paled. “Kidnapped, then,” he said, turning away and pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed and raised his head. “Maker. What’s the good news?”

“That was the good news.”

Dorian laughed. “You must be joking.” He did not remember this Inquisitor Ariala, but he was, apparently, her best friend, and that knowledge somehow instilled a strange protectiveness in him. Perhaps after this meeting, after he cleaned his teeth, he’d ask Bull how he had befriended her.

“I wish I was,” said Zevran, his golden eyes somber. “I do not think she has been kidnapped, Commander. I saw her in Val Royeaux two nights ago.”

“What? Why didn’t you say so? We can send Sutherland to—”

“There is something else you should know,” said Zevran, not moving from his place at the door. He told them of Briala’s Rebellion, as the Royeans were already calling it, and what he had witnessed himself that night. “I stayed in the shadows, of course. I did not want her to know I was there. Briala left the Inquisitor to defend the square from the city watch while the elves made their escape to a supposed safe house. I decided to follow the elves.”

“Are you sure it was the Inquisitor?” Cassandra clarified.

“I have never seen a woman so wickedly talented with a bow, not even my dear Warden,” said Zevran. “And Briala pronounced it to the entirety of the square, so unless my eyes _and_ my ears have deceived me…”

Cullen looked horrified. “And you left her to face the city watch alone—”

“Let me continue, Commander. I reached the safehouse, yes, but Briala recognized me and cast me out before I could get inside. Now, the safehouse was not much bigger than my rooms at Skyhold. I do not know how it could possibly hold every elf following the Ambassador. I returned the way I came because I thought it wise to check on the Inquisitor, no? It was a slaughter. Not a guard left alive, and most torn apart by some animal. There was no trace of our dear Inquisitor.”

“That is… disconcerting news,” said Cassandra, frowning. “What did you do about the elves? You did not leave the matter alone, I hope.”

“I did not. In the morning I retraced my steps to the safehouse and inspected it. There was nothing. It was an empty room, with only dusty furniture inside. The alienage was similarly abandoned. As far as I can tell, there are no city-elves left in Val Royeaux. They have simply…” he waved his hand in the air, “ _poof_. Vanished.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to apologize for the amount of times i keep changing the summary (nothing feels quite right :/ ), and forewarn you about a potential slow in updates. school is starting soon (wooo!) and my writing time will be sharply limited, but i will update when i can. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading, and/or leaving kudos/comments - you have no idea how much i appreciate it!

Anora and Gaspard were dancing. Hundreds of other couples were dancing as well. Ariala sat at her place at Anora’s right side, watching the crowd. Someone tapped on her shoulder. She turned and saw Briala, standing in front of her. The recently-dubbed Marquise of the Dales wore no mask.

“Care to dance with me, Inquisitor?” she asked. Ariala stood up, her wedding cake dress rustling around her ankles, and took the elf’s hand. As Briala led her to the dance floor, Ariala saw Cassandra speaking with Leliana, a Seeker protecting her Divine. Josephine was laughing at something Dorian had told her, a hand lifting to her cheek to hide her blush. Cullen was speaking quietly with Bull and the Chargers.

Briala placed a hand on her waist and swept her toward the dance floor. For a long time, there was silence, and then the orchestra began the Antivan waltz. The Marquise turned sharply away from her, turning her wrist in preparation of the first steps. Ariala spun at the same time, and they met again, placing the back of their hands against each other.

“I have something I must tell you, Inquisitor,” said Briala. “Gaspard intends to dispose of me.”

Ariala turned away, facing an Orlesian man she had never seen before. He wrapped an arm around her waist and they spun in a semi-circle. When they parted, Ariala found herself with Briala again, more breathless than before. “I know not when, or how,” Briala continued. “But his plans are laid.”

It happened so suddenly, she didn’t notice it. The light from the windows dimmed, and the sky outside turned cloudy. Briala let go of her hands and melted into the crowds. The orchestra fell silent as Ariala stood alone on the dance floor. “Protect the Inquisitor!” Cullen shouted, his voice breaking the quiet.

Ariala looked up and saw a masked harlequin leap from the shadows, landing on the feasting table in front of Leliana. Cassandra shot to her feet, but the harlequin was behind the Divine in a moment, her dagger at her neck.

Ariala pushed through the panicking nobles, just in time to see a crossbow bolt bury itself in Cullen’s shoulder. A scream clawed its way up her throat, but she didn’t release it until an assassin cut down Josephine. Ariala sank to her knees, her hands over her mouth.

 _This isn’t how it happened_ , she thought— _realized_ —and when she watched a noble woman get her throat slit, the woman merely evaporated in a puff of smoke. Ariala lowered her hands, and the dormant Anchor warmed her palm. _This isn’t how it happened,_ she thought again, her conviction stronger this time.

A hand grabbed her ankle, and she started, turning to see Dorian crawling toward her. Blood stained his ribs and a knife was stuck in his back. Fear seized her heart, fitting over it like an icy glove and settling between the cracks. _Not Dorian. Not him._

“Your fault,” he managed to say, his grey eyes accusing. “You did this to us. You failed us, Ariala.”

Ariala crawled to his side. “I know,” she whispered. She bit her cheek until it split and blood flooded her mouth. The blood was a reminder that it wasn’t real. A bitter panacea. “I’m so sorry, lethallin. I’m so sorry.”

She pulled away from Dorian’s shade and stood up. Again, she thought, _This isn’t how it happened_.

A raven crashed through the windows and landed on Anora’s empty plate, its wings stiff and lifeless. The wind from the storm outside began to pick up, and lightning flashed outside. With one great, terrible gust, every pane of glass in the windows shattered and was swept toward her. A dark cloud surrounded her, flickering with lightning. Fear shivered in her belly, spreading like a sick heat through the rest of her limbs, until she was frozen in place and trembling, her face tilted toward the ceiling.

The glass cut into her all at once, shredding her dress and her skin. Blood dripped from her hands onto the ground. The tornado around her widened, and Hawke staggered through the wind to collapse at her feet. A spider’s pincer appeared from the shadows, spearing the Champion through the stomach. Ariala gasped, recoiling from the sight. Hawke’s blue gaze fixed on Ariala.

“Tyrant,” Hawke accused, blood bubbling on her lips. “Who gave you the right to choose who lives and who dies?”

“I had to choose,” Ariala whispered, unable to tear her gaze away from the Champion. Her eyes burned with the effort of holding back her tears. “Alistair’s love—”

“ _I had a love too!_ ”

A gravestone emerged from the shadows just behind Hawke, bearing a single word: _Tranquility_. Slowly, the epitaph shifted, turning into _Losing Her_. The blood ran heavy and thick down Ariala’s hands. Rivulets of scarlet dripped to the ground with a maddening _pat-pat-pat_ , mixing with her tears.

Hawke’s scream echoed in the windstorm, bouncing back at her. _I had a love too, I had a love too, I had a love too_ —Ariala grit her teeth, falling to her knees as she clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop,” she whispered, helplessly, tears welling in her eyes as blood (she knew it wasn’t hers, and that was the worst part) seeped between her fingers. “Please, stop.”

The wind whistled against her ears, whipping her hair around her face. Another shard of glass cut across her collarbone and she gasped, recoiling from the pain that pressed against the confines of her skin, straining to burst free. _I had a love too_ whispered at her from the shadows.

A glimpse of something dark—Ariala might’ve imagined it, but she swore it looked like a raven—moved past the stormclouds surrounding her.

A lion’s roar shook the sky. It snapped her back to reality. _This isn’t real_ , she told herself.

The thought gave her the strength to stand up. She stepped around Hawke and moved through the tornado, leaving the wedding’s carnage behind. As she walked, the storm snapping at her flesh began to howl instead of thunder, to swirl instead of flash, to turn white instead of black.

Ariala lifted her Anchored hand against the snowstorm, squinting through the clouds. Instead of the spires of the Imperial Palace, she saw the peaks of the Frostbacks. A city burned in front of her, flames smoldering against the snowy night. _This is wrong,_ she thought. She hadn’t looked back on Haven as it was destroyed. She hadn’t had the strength.

As she watched the flames she made out the outline of a building, far grander than anything Haven could hope to have, and realized—the city below wasn’t Haven at all. It was Val Royeaux, and only one part of the city was on fire. _The alienage_ , she realized, her heart sinking. The wind carried the elves’ screams on its back, and it caressed her cheeks so softly she almost didn’t notice the bitter cold around her.

 _Won’t you go back?_ a voice whispered. It grated down her spine and made her shudder. _You’ve left everyone behind, stolen into the night like a thief. They hate you now. You’ll die here in the mountains, alone and unloved._

“No,” she said, searching for the source of the voice. She saw nothing but empty space and snow. Even the sky was devoid of stars. “This is my dream. Leave.”

_I can’t. I won’t._

A blue butterfly flew from behind her, fluttering around her hand and then away. Ariala turned around, only to see the butterfly hovering in midair, waiting for her. When she took a step forward, the voice growled in annoyance, and she started moving faster.

The butterfly led her over the ridge of the mountains, where the Inquisition’s camp should’ve been. Instead, the mountain turned into a gentle slope, and the snow melted into a meadow. Ariala looked up and saw smoke curling from a walled city. Below it, in a valley, sat a half-circle of abandoned aravels. She knew what had happened, instinctively, and bile rose in her throat.

“No,” she whispered, and started running.

The halla lay with their legs splayed, slaughtered indiscriminately. Carrions feasted on their spilled organs, flies on their bewildered eyes, and they did not scatter when Ariala approached. When she reached the halla, the crows took flight and the flies swelled, consuming the herd until there was nothing but polished bones in front of her. She fought back her nausea and turned away.

One by one, the aravels burst into flames as she passed them, and the cries of battle filled the air. A woman she half-recognized ran past her, holding her wailing child—an arrow sprouted from her back, then two, and she fell. The child was silenced as well, and a crow descended upon him.

Ariala’s stomach heaved, and she turned to see a human army descending down the valley—made up of peasants and soldiers alike. All of them were armed, and in the light of their torches she saw the full might of humanity’s fury. A hail of arrows rose over her head, descending into the heart of the camp, where elves still half-asleep had stumbled out of the aravels. More than half of them were taken down by the assault. When the archers lowered their bows, the warriors bellowed and rushed into the camp. “No,” she breathed, her lips trembling rather than forming true words. She licked her cracked lips and tried again. “No, stop, please.”

The humans weaved around her like she was not there, and she turned around. She could not watch. She had to watch.

Thunder rumbled low across the sky, and the air rippled with the coming rainstorm. The next moment, the skies unleashed their rage; the rain came down in droves, soaking them to the bone. Ariala sprinted across the grass when she spotted a soldier lifting his sword to hack down an elven mother. She collided with him just after he cut the woman’s stomach open. _Too late_ , a voice hissed. _You’re always too late._

Ariala screamed and punched the soldier with every ounce of her strength. His nose gave way with a sick crunch, and her knuckles came up red. Satisfaction bloomed in the pit of her stomach at the sound, cold and heavy and cruel, but leaving emptiness in its wake. She punched him again and ignored the tears that ran down her face, ignored her hollow heart.

At the third punch, the human snarled at her and pushed her off, rolling over and pulling out a dirk. An arrow found a chink in his mail and he turned around, his attention diverted. Ariala scrambled backward, slipping in the mud, her tears blinding her vision. “A dream,” she whispered. Even as she spoke, she witnessed the hunter Ellana was sweet on fall to his knees, a blade shoved through his stomach and its tip protruding from his back. “This is a dream.”

Her words rang hollow. Nothing about her surroundings changed. The knowledge that what she witnessed had happened only made her sob harder.

A hand touched her shoulder. “What have you done, da’len?” Keeper Deshanna asked, the firelight reflecting her horror and fear in her eyes. She watched the massacre, making no move to help the clan. “What have you brought upon us?”

“I don’t know, Keeper,” Ariala sobbed. “Forgive me.”

Deshanna’s gaze hardened and her fingertips dug into Ariala’s skin. “Harellan,” the Keeper spat. The word chilled Ariala, and she shook her head in a weak denial. “Were we not good to you? Why else would you betray us so?”

Flies buzzed around her, and crows circled the sky, carrying the stench of death-rot on their wings. Lightning flashed, and another elf—another, another, there was always another—fell. She couldn’t breathe, she was crying too hard. “The clan was my home. Please, Keeper, I never meant for any of this—”

“Were you not loved by the clan?” Deshanna demanded. Words failed Ariala, and Deshanna’s fingernails dug crescents into her collarbone. “Were you not loved by the clan, harellan?”

“She was!” a different voice said— _roared._ Deshanna released Ariala’s shoulder and looked up.

A lioness leapt over Ariala, its fur rippling gold even in the darkness. It landed in front of her and flicked its tail, snarling. Its golden aura seemed to brighten as it crouched as a lioness and stood as Ellana.

“Asa’ma’lin,” Ariala whispered, her voice hoarse from her tears. Her sister did not turn to acknowledge her.

“Valor.” The Keeper spat the word as if a curse.

“Fear,” Ellana returned, pulling her dirks from her belt. She flexed her hands and turned her head to the side, regarding Ariala out of the corner of her eye. June’s vallaslin gleamed gold on her face. It should have been burgundy. “Go, sis. Mahanon will lead you.”

The aravels had turned fuzzy—the details were there, but they were indiscriminate. Ariala saw no elves, no soldiers, no halla. She only saw Ellana and the Keeper. “A dream,” she whispered to herself, and this time she believed her words. She stood up and ran. When she looked over her shoulder, the Keeper and her sister were fighting in a vicious exchange—flashes of blades met with bursts of fire, gleaming fangs snapped at grasping talons. It was a blur of movement and she couldn’t be sure who was winning.

Ariala spun around, panic turning her thoughts wild, and crested the hill. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating a raven flying toward her. With a reverberating caw, the raven landed on the ground—and in a moment, it had changed into her mother. Her cheeks were tearstained and there was a stab wound in her abdomen, gaping open and weeping blood.

Before Ariala could react, the butterfly from earlier flew in front of her and stopped. Its blue glow widened and stretched, turning into a man—and it took the form of her brother Mahanon. He half-turned, keeping his gaze on the spirit wearing her mother’s face, and drew her close.

He pressed his lips against the outer shell of her ear. “Mya fen.” He stepped away from her, gripping his staff.

Her mother turned her tearful eyes on her. “Asha’len—da’vhenan—come with me. I will keep you safe.”

“She will not listen to you, Deceit,” Mahanon said, his eyes flashing blue. Mahanon didn’t have blue eyes. And if Valor was the opposite of Fear, then—there was no spirit of Honesty that she knew of to counter Deceit, but there _were_ spirits of—

“Faith,” she whispered, awed.

Mahanon flashed a crooked smile, but his gaze was on the forest around them. “Run,” he said. Ariala glanced at the trees and saw a black wolf standing behind a trunk, its red eyes focused on her.

Mya fen. Follow the wolf.

Chills swept through her, unrelated to the rainstorm.

“You’ll never make it,” Deceit crooned, stepping toward her. “If you don’t come with me, da’len, you will be alone. You gave up your vallaslin, your home, your birthright. Cut off the points of your ears and you’ll be just another shemlen. How could anyone love a traitor such as you?”

Mahanon swung his staff, sending fire blazing in a protective half-circle around them. Deceit took a step back, her confidence wavering. She narrowed her eyes at Mahanon. “You interfere in matters that are not yours, Faith.”

“As you learned,” said Mahanon. “Go, Ariala.”

The Dread Wolf was watching her. Ariala took a deep breath. There was no time to debate. She either trusted Solas, or she continued through this nightmare.

She trusted Solas. Despite everything, despite his misdirection and actions and lies, she trusted him.

She took a step forward, then another, until she was running. She heard her mother scream after her, heard the choked, dying gasps of her clan drown out a thunderclap, but she ignored them. _As you learned_ , Mahanon had said. She dredged up the memories.

She was not a mage in the waking world, but in the Fade, the Anchor made sure the possibilities were endless. Ariala inhaled, thought of the wolves, and ran faster.

When her feet next hit the ground, they were paws sheathed in white fur. The Dread Wolf greeted her with a whine, nuzzling her for a brief moment that comforted her even in this nightmare. Then he turned and they were running—away from the wedding, away from Hawke, away from the burning aravels and slaughtered halla. Away from Fear and Deceit.

The world shifted around her, but she was so focused on keeping pace with the Wolf she hardly noticed it. First it was the rain, as it slowed to a stop. Then it was the storm clouds, as they dispersed and gave way to a blue sky. The final touch was the light; as she ran, it turned brighter, and she started to feel water instead of blood seep between her paws.

They finally halted in a verdant grove, ringed by trees and a shallow stream. Ariala collapsed. Her claws melted into hands, her fur shrunk and shriveled into skin. Soon she was an elf again, lying on the grass, struggling to catch her breath. Solas stood, casting wards, strengthening the Fade until it drew thick across her skin. When he was satisfied, he lay down beside her.

He turned to her, his face shadowed by his thoughts. “We are safe here,” he told her. “My friends shield us from Dirthamen’s view.”

Ariala stared at him. “You asked them to come here? To—to protect me?” She had to gasp the words, she was so out of breath from running. How could she be tired when she went nowhere?

“I did. I could not lead you out of your nightmares myself, else I risked drawing attention to my actions. But I saw everything. Dirthamen will only think that you have made powerful friends, who came to your aid when it was required. You were so brave, vhenan.”

He was so gentle in his answer. So gentle she hardly noticed the pain lance through her heart.

When he had left her in Ghilan’nain’s Grove, she had sewn the wounds on her heart shut, using the rudimentary tools of alcohol and anger. When she’d seen him again in the gazebo and he healed her bruises, the ravaged edges of her heart had ripped out her crude stitches, revealing scars that had never quite healed. But that one word— _vhenan_ , breathed into her skin and etched into her bones, a deeper brand than any physical thing—it was as if he had taken a knife again and cut her open anew.

“How can I be your heart?” she croaked. Her lungs slowed in their strain for breath, and she closed her eyes, sore from her tears. She was so full of grief it threatened to choke her, but she was sick of tears, so she swallowed it down. “After everything, how…”

_How could anyone love a traitor such as you?_

Solas seemed to hear her thoughts. He gathered her in his arms and pressed his nose into her hair, his fingers entwining tightly with hers. His other hand was on her waist, warm and heavy and real. She lay between his legs, her back against his chest and her face nestled into the crook of his neck. “Their natures are to lead you astray. Please, if nothing else, hold on to that. Every word they spoke was false.”

She held on to his hand like a lifeline. Her gratitude stuck to her skin and bled from the space between their fingers, and she wondered if he could feel it. But her _ma serannas_ got stuck in the space between teeth and tongue and lodged in her mouth, unable to be shaken free. It had a hollow aftertaste—the words didn’t have the depth she wanted, or needed. So instead of speaking, she swallowed her thanks and opened her eyes, squeezing his hand.

“Stay with me?” she whispered, hoarsely.

“Always.”

In the morning, she would reach across her foreign bed and expect him to be at her side, and she would find nothing but sheets under her fingertips. In the morning, they would go back to being strangers. But for now—

It was enough to be with him. It was enough to be held and to feel as though she were loved.

“You are,” Solas said. Ariala felt lips feather across her temple, soft and almost reverent. “Never doubt it, ma lath.”

When the sunlight shone on her face and roused her from the Fade, she opened her eyes and saw Dirthamen standing on her balcony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, the obligatory solavellan dream sequence. i love you, solavellan dream sequences. never change.
> 
> ELVISH:  
> \- da'len: little one  
> \- harellan: traitor  
> \- asa'ma'lin: sister  
> \- asha'len: daughter  
> \- da'vhenan: little heart


	11. Chapter 11

“You are an intriguing woman, Ariala Lavellan,” said Dirthamen, clasping his hands behind his back. “You are a proud Dalish elf, but you have no vallaslin. You are the leader of a Chantry organization and Herald of its prophet, but you don’t believe in _any_ gods, much less your own divinity. You are not a Fadewalker, but you have somehow befriended two powerful spirits to the extent that they are willing to fight to the death to protect your dreams.”

“Well, good morning to you too,” said Ariala, rubbing at her eyes.

Dirthamen turned his head, studying her out of the corner of his eye. “Do you always protect yourself with humor?”

She didn’t answer, instead taking the time to observe her room. Blue barriers shimmered over the balcony. They could be person-proof, or magic-proof, or sound-proof… there really was no way to tell. Again, she wished she was a mage. Right now, she was stuck where she was, alone and defenseless. There was nothing she despised more.

Ariala carefully sat up, her gaze flicking back to the Lord of Secrets. “What do you want, my lord?”

“What do I want.” He smiled, dark and humorless, and gooseflesh rippled across her arms. “Many things. But most of all, Inquisitor Lavellan, I want to know how the Dread Wolf came to love you so desperately.”

Ariala didn’t dare to breathe. Her heart pounded underneath her ribs, filled with fear for a reason she couldn’t put her finger on. The elves had called her Inquisitor, but he shouldn’t know her clan name. He _shouldn’t_. She had been so careful. “What are you talking about? How do you know my clan name?”

Dirthamen tsked and turned, walking over the edge of the bed. He sat down, drawing her Anchored hand into his own and running his finger over the scar. Then he looked up, his blue eyes locking with hers. “Sleep,” he commanded, and she was powerless to resist.

 

Everything was dark, kissed by the chill and shrouded by the fog. Ariala stood in the darkness, listening to others’ breathing, and as her eyes adjusted to the light she could make out details of the room. It was a cavern of marble floors and white ceilings with veins of black. A window in the shape of a brilliant sun was covered by black cloth, hampering the light and condemning the whole room to a dull shade of grey. As her vision adjusted further, she saw a lone throne rising up from the wide expanse of the room, and it was empty. Behind her were seven forms, still and shadowed.

Before she could explore further, brilliant blue light erupted across the room, searing her vision. Ariala blinked and turned, squinting against the intrusion. The light stretched across the floor, piercing the darkness, and fell upon the seven shadows. Ghilan’nain’s silver hair shone white, and Ariala saw her hand entwined with Andruil’s. As the light lingered on the gods, Ghilan’nain’s hand twitched, the first sign of life. Slowly, one by one, they awoke, rose to their feet, and stumbled toward the door. Ariala followed them.

She passed through the light and stumbled into an open forest. Behind her was an eluvian frame—a flickering blue barrier was where the glass should’ve been. A statue of a howling wolf and a bowing dragon were on either side of the eluvian. Ariala turned around and saw a hooded Solas, his brow furrowed as he stared at her.

For a moment, her breath caught, but then his gaze slid along to someone else. Ariala turned and stepped out of the way, observing the gods as they left their prison and squinted at the sun. All of them were dressed for battle. She recognized Andruil, wearing golden armor stained by some black substance, and Dirthamen with several daggers strapped across his body.

Andruil was the first to recover from the sunlight and the first to recognize Solas. “You,” she hissed. She raised her bow and fired a golden arrow. Solas lifted a hand, and a barrier pulsed between him and the arrow. It sailed through the barrier, shattering it with a sound like water drip, but Solas Fade-stepped before the arrow found its target.

“We do not have time for this,” said Solas. Andruil screamed a curse and fired another arrow, which Solas avoided similarly. With a start, Ariala realized they were speaking Elvish. She hadn’t even noticed the Well translating for her.

Andruil almost shot at him again, but a goddess in red silks placed a hand on her arm.

“Enough, sister,” she said, her words throaty and low. The woman, who could be no other than Sylaise, ignored Andruil’s scream of frustration and looked to the other gods. “Can you not sense Mythal? The Dread Wolf carries her power.”

A man blinked. His face was marred by frown lines, and his eyes were molten gold, a harsher color than Andruil’s. He carried a terrifying serrated sword at his waist and golden armor that shone too brightly in the sun. _Elgar’nan_ , the Well whispered, and when Ariala looked at him she could smell charred flesh and burnt earth. “I sense it as well. Andruil, lower your bow.”

A vein pulsed in Andruil’s forehead, but at Sylaise’s urging she obeyed. Solas took another breath, closed his eyes briefly, and re-opened them. “It has been three thousand years since you last walked the earth. Much has changed, especially for the People. I do not have the power required to do what is necessary for them.”

“So you come to us?” Ghilan’nain asked, narrowing her eyes. She held out her palm and shook her head. “I cannot even draw upon the Fade. There is something… blocking—”

“That is the Veil,” said Solas. “There are a great many things about this world which I must tell you of, and that is one of them. You must—”

“Do not _dare_ tell me what we must do, harellan!” Andruil barked. Ghilan’nain placed her hand on the huntress’s arm, but Andruil was not placated. She shrugged Ghilan’nain off and narrowed her eyes at Solas, baring her teeth in a vicious snarl. “I swear that one way or another I will kill you, and laugh as you howl your pain to the stars. Or perhaps I will hunt down the ones you love—”

Solas narrowed his eyes. “It is fortunate, then, that you will never find your quarry. I awoke from uthenera several years ago and have been alone in my travels ever since. The only company I kept was the wildlife I hunted.”

“Do you think I believe that? No. If I must hunt the corners of the world for her, I will! And I will make you watch as I _destroy_ her.”

“You waste your time,” snapped Solas. “There is much more at stake than your petty need for revenge.”

“Petty?” echoed Ghilan’nain, incredulous. “You must be joking, Fen. You locked us away for… I don’t even know how long. A ruinous trick, it seems. And yet you dare call us petty because some of us wish to see you answer for your actions?”

Solas lowered his gaze, abashed. “Ir abelas, da’halla,” he said. “But it does not make my words any less true. I have been alone for longer than I care to admit.”

“You are oddly defensive,” noted Dirthamen, his blue eyes flashing. “What are you hiding, brother?”

Solas’s grip on his staff tightened until his knuckles were white. Andruil saw and laughed, loud and bright and harsh, and every other god smiled except Ghilan’nain. When her laughter tapered off, she grinned—slow, savage, so wide it stretched her scar.

“Dirthamen,” said the huntress, “bring me her name.”

 

The memory dissolved into smoke, and Ariala steeled her expression before she turned around. The true Dirthamen stood in front of her, watching her in silence. His form was as smoky as the memories, and grey-black except for the red lines twisting themselves throughout his body. They were remarkably similar to the veins she’d seen in his raven wings, but this time the red converged to coil into a hard knot in the center of his chest—and they radiated heat.

Ariala raised her eyes to his face, and wondered if he knew what she could see. “Why are you showing me this? You had the advantage and now you’ve lost it.”

“Because I have yet to determine if you are worth the effort,” he replied. “Your reaction will… help me choose.”

“What is this _effort_? Keeping me alive, or coming up with a way to kill me?”

“Must it be either of those?”

She swallowed hard and turned away, studying the green-grey scenery of the Fade. She could feel the mist prickling on her skin, surrounding her like a blanket. Dirthamen stood beside her and crossed his arms, watching her like she was a specimen to be studied. Solas had done that, back when they were still trying to figure out how to contain the Anchor. She hadn’t liked it from him, and even less so from Dirthamen—from the Lord of Secrets, being analyzed felt like being threatened.

“And what makes you think he loves me?” she asked, crossing her arms. Her heart thumped against her sternum, hard enough to leave her faint. Could he hear it in the Fade? “We’ve hardly spoken to each other.”

“Hm.” Dirthamen paused, considering, and he raised his head to watch the Fade. At once, the surroundings began to shift. The mist rose up and hardened into mossy stones, the rock under her feet flooded with dark water that pooled around her ankles, and Dirthamen disappeared into the shadows. Ariala could see the red in his body and followed it, pushing past draping moss and trudging through the water until she came face-first with a statue of a resting Fen’Harel. She took another look and realized where the Fade had put her: Dirthamen’s temple.

A veilfire brazier sparked to life beside the statue. When she turned, the light had illuminated the ghosts of her, Solas, Dorian and Blackwall, all staring at the statue. Her replica stood still, raising a flickering veilfire torch to the wolf’s face, her eyes dark and lost in thought. It was as if the spirits had conserved this memory as a snapshot of life, preserved in a single moment.

Dirthamen emerged from the shadows and stood next to her memory-self. “I do not _think_ he loves you, Inquisitor.” Ariala watched as the Lord of Secrets lifted a finger and traced Mythal’s branches on her copy’s forehead, and when he looked at her again she could not meet his gaze. “I have known it since we met. Fen’Harel has done his best, but he doomed you when he took away your vallaslin.”

“It was a gift,” she whispered, eyes snapping up to meet his. _Ar lasa mala revas_ , she remembered, and the thought did not carry its familiar ache. “I wanted him to do it.”

“Then you were the one who sealed your fate,” he said with a shrug. He did not react when Ariala stepped closer.

“Is that what you said when Falon’Din betrayed you?” she asked, softly. “You sealed your own fate for loving him?”

The change was immediate, and it confirmed her own private suspicions. Dirthamen snatched his hand away and turned to her fully, his eyes wide, confused, and—the knot of red in his chest pulsed and expanded, until all his insides were buzzing scarlet.

Ah. As she’d suspected.

Ariala allowed him to meet her gaze, and then her hand shot out to wrap around the red. The fury that swept through her was stronger than she’d thought—she choked, her vision turning red and then swarming with black and yellow spots. Dirthamen’s temple crumbled around her and she was plummeting through the green sky, the boiling anger wrapped around her hands and sticking to her skin.

Ariala’s fall stopped an inch from the black stone floor, and then she collapsed fully. She recovered the next moment and sat up, crossing her legs underneath each other and holding the knot tied around her fingers. It filled her with her own fury, of course; she could almost hear Briala saying _I am doing what you have never done_ in the faint whispers around her. But if there was anything she was good at, it was focusing.

Ariala gritted her teeth, ignoring the boiling anger in the pit of her stomach and the blood roaring in her ears, and began to untangle the puzzle in her hands. Dirthamen’s fury had become string during the fall, and while it was soft to the touch, it burned gouges into her skin. Ariala worked anyway.

Her work finished—whether it had taken her minutes or hours or days, she could not say. But when Dirthamen’s anger was untied at last, Ariala stood up, holding one end pinched between her fingers. The other end of the string began to stretch, winding its own path through the Fade. There was something in the back of her mind, telling her that she should stop, but she managed to ignore it.

Ariala followed the trail of hard, boiling anger, grabbing its red string as she walked and winding it between her fingers like she was playing cat’s cradle. The string went from one memory to the next, but Ariala refused to be distracted. Her path did not stray from the string’s.

The anger led her to a room in a sumptuous palace. A crystal ceiling rose above her, exposing the blue sky above but wired through with ironbark and silverite to strengthen it. A bed carved from a living tree was in the center of the room, its rumpled, snowy sheets spotted with blood.

The knot of red in her hands disappeared, replaced with confusion and— _hurt_ , most of all. Ariala’s anger disappeared with Dirthamen’s, and with his new emotions’ arrival came her own. Rather than facing Briala as Orlais teetered on the brink, Ariala felt as though she’d been left in Ghilan’nain’s Grove all over again. Ariala tore her gaze from her surroundings and spotted the memory at once.

The crystal walls separating the balconies and the bedroom had been shattered. Dirthamen was collapsed against the balcony, one arm slung over the railing and his other hand pressed to his side. His feet were stained with blood, and so was most of his pale skin. Ariala stepped out onto the glass and watched as another man dancing a knife between his fingers knelt by the Lord of Secrets’ side.

The man had skin as dark as Andruil’s, an almost tawny tone, and his eyes were hazel instead of burnished gold. Black hair fell past his shoulders, but two little braids that began at his temples and became one at the back of his head kept it out of his face.

“Why?” Dirthamen gasped, his lips shining red. The sensation of betrayal in Ariala intensified, starting in her heart and clogging her throat. Ariala swallowed, unable to do anything but watch. Dirthamen shook his head, weakly, and more blood trickled down his side. “Ma vheraan—”

“Because I can no longer stand Elgar’nan,” said the other man. One of his hands darted to cup the back of Dirthamen’s head, and he cradled it almost like they were lovers. “And you know how they became this way, sa’lath. They killed beings more powerful than they and took that strength for themselves. So shall I. Your power will give me the edge I need in this war. Ir abelas.”

“Falon’Din—” Dirthamen rasped. He dissolved into a coughing fit, and Ariala felt her lips part in a small _o_ of surprise. She had known that Dirthamen’s love had had to be Falon’Din, simply by process of elimination, and the little hints that had pieced the puzzle together. Dirthamen may have been the Lord of Secrets, but Ariala Lavellan knew how to spot a broken heart.

But this—to know that the betrayal extended so far as attempted murder—she was stunned. The stories said that Dirthamen had the utmost faith in Falon’Din, even when confronted by the ravens Fear and Deceit. If that were true—and she hadn’t been sure about the truth of any Dalish lore for a long time—then Falon’Din had used Dirthamen’s trust against him.

She watched Dirthamen try to scramble to his feet, but a burst of power from Falon’Din sent him back to sitting on the ground with his shoulderblades against the banister. “Banal’vhenan, Falon’Din,” said Dirthamen, spitting blood at his attacker’s feet. Ariala expected anger, but the only thing she felt was a terrible pain in her heart, so intense it stole her breath.

Something sad crossed Falon’Din’s face, but it was gone in a heartbeat. He turned the knife so the blade was facing up and leaned forward, kissing Dirthamen as he slid the dagger between his ribs—

—Ariala was yanked from the memory so quickly nausea rose up from her stomach. Before she had even a chance to process what she had seen, she was pressed into the bed, Dirthamen’s arm pushed against her throat.

“How dare you,” he began, quiet and seething. “Traipsing through memories not yours as if the whole Fade is your domain. I should kill you for your impudence.”

Ariala wheezed, clawing at his arm. He increased the pressure, and spots dotted her eyes. The Anchor warmed in her palm, glowing but doing nothing. She tried to summon its power—sometimes, if enough time passed, if she had enough energy, it answered her call—but nothing happened. It remained still and green, nestled in the skin of her palm. She kneed his stomach, but his muscles may as well have been made of silverite, because he didn’t even flinch.

Dirthamen began to whisper in Elvish, and the Well came forward to translate what she could not. “Are you proud, thin-blood?” he snarled. He removed his arm for a split second and then he was straddling her, his thumbs digging into her skin. Ariala gasped, unable to suck in enough air. There was a pressure on her Anchored hand, aching to be released, but she didn’t know how and she was going to die—

Solas appeared behind Dirthamen and grabbed the back of his neck. “Release her,” he said. Ariala heard him, but there was a strange quality to his voice, as though she was underwater and only hearing echoes of the conversation. Solas’s fingers frosted and ice began to creep across Dirthamen’s skin. “Release her, Dirthamen. _Now_.”

Dirthamen bared his teeth, but the pressure on her throat eased. Ariala inhaled, the air catching in her lungs and making her windpipe itch. One hand flew up to cover what was sure to be several bruises as she coughed, turning away.

“I have decided,” declared the Lord of Secrets, his voice leaving no room for argument. Ariala’s heart leapt in her throat. She turned, too panicked to do anything but obey her instincts, and clutched at him. Dirthamen slipped away from her like water between her fingers and she turned to Solas, desperation skittering against her ribs as she scooted to the side of the bed.

“Stop him,” she croaked. Solas gave her a curious look, and she stumbled off the bed. “He’s going to tell Andruil—”

Solas reacted faster than she thought possible. He was a blur of movement—one moment he was close enough to touch, and the next he had slammed Dirthamen into one of the pillars separating her room and the balcony. Dirthamen laughed in Solas’s face, even as he was pinned by ice and Solas’s glare. “Ah, and there is my final confirmation! Ma serannas, Dread Wolf. _Truly._ ”

“She is innocent of your imagined crime, Dirthamen,” Solas all but spat, but even she could hear the tinge of desperation in his viciousness. “You do not need to endanger her to hurt me. And if she does die—what then? Will your rage be appeased? Somehow, I doubt it. It is not me you hate, Dirthamen, and we both know it.”

Dirthamen laughed, fire flickering at his fingertips and melting the ice. “You’ve failed the tests from the very first, _brother_.” He broke away from his shackles, stepping outside the barrier with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Solas tried to follow, but the barrier pulsed when he raised his hand to test it. Dirthamen raised an eyebrow. “I cannot believe you did not notice this was a one-way barrier. Were you too concerned for your beloved Inquisitor to sense it?”

Solas growled. Actually growled. “I was the one who saved you when Falon—”

Dirthamen’s smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “Yes, and then you forfeited that debt when you locked me away for millennia.”

“She is a _shard_ ,” Solas tried again. “We are all sworn to protect them. What do you think will happen to you when he finds out your hand was in her death? Do you think he will show you mercy, or perhaps grant you leniency because Andruil was her killer? No, Dirthamen, you know what he will do.”

Ariala licked her lips and sank to the bed, numb to the cold spring morning air biting her skin. She wanted to say something, do her own part to change Dirthamen’s mind, but her mind was blank. If she hadn’t intruded—if she hadn’t unraveled his anger and seen one of his many secrets—would this be happening?

Dirthamen laughed again, without a trace of nervousness, and this time his smile seemed genuine. “Will you beg me, Dread Wolf?” he asked, very softly. “I wonder.”

Solas’s shoulders bowed with his sigh, weighed with a knowledge apparent only to him. “Please,” he pleaded, whisper-soft, in the tone of a man who knew he was doomed. “Please, Dirthamen. I beg you… do not do this. Do what you will with me, but leave her in peace.”

Dirthamen’s anger subsided, his expression shifting into something thoughtful. “You love her,” breathed Dirthamen, shocked and wondrous, almost as if he couldn’t believe his own words. He looked at Ariala, the corners of his eyes tightening for an instant before his face returned to its neutral mask. She stared at him, though she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

Dirthamen’s tone softened, became almost melancholy. “Take comfort in that, da’lath’in, when the time comes.”

And then he turned on his heel and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir abelas, da'halla - I'm sorry, little doe (constructed)  
> Ma vheraan - my lion  
> sa'lath - my one love  
> Banal'vhenan, Falon'Din - you never loved me, Falon'Din  
> Ma serannas - my thanks  
> da'lath'in - little heart; "an endearment used to describe someone who is emotional, carries their heart on their sleeve, is very empathetic, or very sympathetic to the plights of others"


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your kudos and comments give me life, guys. <3 enjoy the chapter!  
> 

She stood at the bank of the Well, staring at the yellow dragon mosaics underneath the surface. When she took a step, the water around her ankle was surprisingly warm, and she sighed through her nose. At least she wouldn’t be cold.

Before she took another step, before she did anything, Solas stopped her with one, quiet word. “Vhenan.”

She turned, and he was there, kneeling in front of her, her hands clasped tightly in his. Solas pressed his thumbs into her palms and she knelt before she realized it. Soon they were at the same height, eye-to-eye, and Solas watched her with agony written on the lines of his face. “Do not do this.”

Ariala smiled at him and disentangled her hands from his, running a palm across his cheek and pressing her forehead to his. “I must,” she whispered, and he said, “No—”

“I must,” she repeated, her fingers trailing over his jaw. Solas wound his fingers in her hair and squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t you see, arasha? We can use this. This is a relic of our people, our past. How can you ask me to give it to a shem? I can’t. _I can’t_.”

She pulled away, but he caught her wrist. “Inquisitor,” he said, pausing, considering. When he spoke next, it was a quiet plea, burdened by the weight of his words. “I—I beg you, Ariala. Do not drink.”

“Time is short, Inquisitor,” said Morrigan, but Ariala only had eyes for her love. Her love, who worried about this mysterious Well so much that he was willing to beg her. It touched her, that he was willing to expose himself in a way he never had before.

And it devastated her that she would have to deny him.

“We have lost enough of our heritage already, sa’lath,” she said gently, giving him a reassuring smile. “I won’t lose another part, not if I can help it.”

Solas clenched his jaw. She pulled away and turned, wading further into the Well with the same awe as when she’d performed Mythal’s rites. The water swirled around her hips, the once-clear pool beginning to turn blue.

Ariala cupped water between her palms and lifted it to her lips. “Vhenan, _please!_ ” Solas cried behind her, panicked in a way she only ever heard when she’d fallen in battle. She tilted her head back and drank, ignoring how the water tasted like tears.

 

Ariala felt as though the world had shattered around her. _Dirthamen, bring me her name_ , Andruil had said, and the Lord of Secrets was about to oblige the huntress. She swallowed hard, her terror skittering in chilling waves across her stomach and down her spine, and she dug her hands into the bedspread.

She wondered what death would feel like. Andruil would use her arrows, certainly—would she put an arrow through her throat, like the slaver, or would she aim it at her eye? Would she want to draw Ariala’s agony out, or would the huntress kill her quickly?

No, Ariala decided. Andruil had been itching for revenge since she left the prison. She would make Ariala’s death last as long as she could, if only to watch Solas suffer more. Perhaps Ghilan’nain would take pity on her and fry her nerves, so she felt no pain.

Solas turned, his movement catching her eye. Ariala lifted her head as he knelt in front of her and kissed her hands. “Forgive me,” he whispered, and his voice cracked. Ariala swallowed and she turned her Anchored hand, cupping his cheek in her palm. Solas closed his eyes and brushed a kiss against the inside of her wrist, tender and devastating.

“I promised you an answer, emma lath. This is it. I knew what they would do to you, if they learned. I tried to distance myself, but…” he paused, shoulders slumping with defeat.

“You knew you were going to awaken the gods?” she asked, incredulous. “Even during the Inquisition?”

Solas sighed and did not answer her. “I did not want you to get involved with these fools and their pettiness.”

“You should have known better,” she said, somehow laughing despite the tears in her eyes. Solas smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he cupped the back of her hand with his own. Her thumb stroked the delicate skin under his eye and came back wet. “I can’t help but stick my nose everywhere, especially when it comes to so-called elvhen gods. Exploring temples, drinking Wells, stealing orbs…”

He managed a laugh, more a huff than anything else, but it made her smile feel less forced. “How can you see humor in this?” he asked, shaking his head, and she had no answer for him. With their silence, his mirth faded. His face became shadowed and he lowered his eyes. “I thought I could protect you. I was so careful—”

She shook her head. “Dirthamen saw my vallaslin in a memory, when we were at his temple. He had my name the moment he saw my bare face.”

He looked up sharply at that, his throat jerking as he swallowed. “I destroy everything I touch,” he whispered, stricken, and his eyes trailed down to stare at nothing. Ariala grabbed his hands and, when she stood, pulled him to his feet. When they were standing, she forced him to look at her.

“I am not dead yet,” she said, and her fierceness snapped him out of his melancholy. Solas wiped her stray tears away and rested his forehead against hers. Ariala forced herself to focus on his touch instead of anything else. She fisted her hands in his tunic and squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t kill Corypheus just to roll over and die at Andruil’s hands.”

“My heart,” he said, breathless and hushed, so full of love it soothed her ravaged heart.

She breathed him in, the familiar blend of herbs and earth that reminded her so much of home, and spread her palms flat along his chest. Ariala opened her eyes and was caught in the intensity of his gaze. Solas’s thumb swept along her cheekbone and rested on the full curve of her bottom lip. His eyes were dark iron blue, like a cloud preparing for a torrent of rain, and his lips parted on a breath. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured. His sincerity cut her to the bone.

In that moment, she didn’t care about the Well and its vague, indistinguishable whispers. She didn’t care about the fact that he had murdered Mythal to steal her power. She cared only about—she wanted only—

Ariala stepped closer and rolled onto the balls of her feet, her lips pressing against his. It was a smooth movement, with all the easy grace of resuming a dance she knew by heart. Solas’s lips were dry under hers, cool and soft. The moment her mouth slanted over his, he groaned and sank his hands into her hair, his eyes slipping shut. Ariala closed her eyes as well and gave herself over to the sensations shivering across her body.

No matter how she spun it, kissing Solas felt like coming home.

His heat seeped into her body and warmed the places left empty, filled her heart to near-bursting. The kiss was leisurely, almost chaste, as they re-learned each other, reacquainted themselves with a pleasure two years denied. Ariala could _feel_ his love thrumming in her blood, and wondered if it was some magic of his, this wonderful, strange thrill she always got when she was kissing him. Wondered if he could feel her love’s steady beat in his chest, as well.

She flattened her hands against his chest and slid them down, her fingers fanning over his ribcage. His shirt was smooth silk rather than roughspun cotton, but she could still feel his muscles twitch underneath her touch.

Solas broke the kiss and shuddered, his shut eyes squeezing tight. Ariala strained further on her tiptoes to peck the delicate skin of one eye. She tugged his right hand out of her hair and placed her Anchored hand in his, entwining their fingers and clasping tight. “I am alive,” she murmured to him, brushing a lingering kiss at the corner of his lips. Solas turned his head, seeking another, but she evaded him. “I am alive, vhenan’ara, and I am not leaving you.”

“I cannot lose you,” he rasped, his eyes opening. The warmth that had filled her began to burn. “Not now. Perhaps not ever. Andruil will have to step over my corpse if she wishes to harm you.”

The balcony shimmered over his shoulder, flashing dark blue before spots appeared in the center of it. Solas turned when he noticed her stare, and his hold on her Anchored hand tightened. The barrier’s holes widened, until there was nothing but fragments of what once was—and in a few moments, even those last vestiges were gone. Dirthamen had shared his secret.

Ariala lifted her other hand and turned his chin toward her, her brain whirring for something—anything—to grasp onto and call a plan. Instead of thinking, though, her first thought was Solas. “Promise me you won’t try to restore Arlathan,” she said.

Solas’s eyes widened. “What? How can you be thinking of—”

“Arlathan was beautiful, _yes_ , but it was flawed. You said yourself that it was no better than Tevinter. That’s what you’re trying to do with the gods, aren’t you? Believe me, sa’lath, the People’s fate can’t be changed by going backward. You can’t restore the past, and you shouldn’t try. Promise me you won’t try.”

Someone began to laugh, far in the distance. At first, Ariala seized, thinking it was Flemeth—but the laugh, while just as horrifying as the old woman’s, was younger, fresher, brighter. The sound of it chilled her blood. Starlight burst behind her eyes, bright and terrible, and for a terrifying instant she couldn’t see.

But then she blinked, and Solas had turned to the balcony pillars, tense and his hands sparkling with electricity. Ariala moved with him, hovering just behind his shoulder, her gaze searching for her bow. But either Dirthamen had moved it while she slept or she had misplaced it, because the shortbow wasn’t in its place against the elaborately carved armoire.

“One day I would like to stop being weaponless when I’m about to be attacked,” Ariala muttered under her breath. Solas shook with minute, fine tremors, visible only in the line of his shoulders. Ariala saw them and moved closer, resting her Anchored palm on his sparking hand. Arcs of lightning ran up her arm—Ariala stiffened, back arching and eyes rolling into her head, and her legs gave out.

Solas caught her as she collapsed and held her as she seized, lowering her to the ground. When the electricity had run its course, she opened her eyes to see him cradling her head, staring down at her with horror and fear plain in his eyes. He swept loose hair behind her ear and pressed two fingers to her neck, his eyes widening when he felt how fast her heart was racing. There was a searing pain in her arm, and she winced away from him when his clinical touch turned toward her burnt arm.

“Let me help you,” he pleaded, and Ariala heard footsteps on the stairs outside. Panic swept through her, numbing the pain—Solas would fight Andruil for her, this she knew without saying, and if she couldn’t stop them then Solas needed to have all the mana he could.

Before she could tell him anything, however, Andruil strode into the room. Her bow was slung over her shoulders, and a quiver full of arrows was strapped to her back. Two knives were sheathed at her waist and another on her thigh. When she saw Solas and Ariala, she threw her head back and laughed. When her fit was done, she looked back at them, her golden eyes gleaming and her scar pale against her skin. “It’s _true!_ Oh, I will enjoy this. I wonder, Dread Wolf—do you think Father will come running if you bleed? Or is it only when Mythal is endangered?”

When Mythal was endangered? Was—but the goddess was dead. Wasn’t she? “What do you mean?” she asked Andruil, who ignored her.

Solas kept his eyes on the huntress as he reached for Ariala’s burnt arm. She shook her head and caught his hand, giving it a squeeze before letting it go. Solas kissed her forehead instead and leaned forward, placing his palms on the floor. In the next moment, he was a bristling black wolf with familiar slate-blue eyes.

The wolf bared its teeth at the huntress, its ears flat against its head, and placed a paw beside Ariala’s temple. It crouched, protecting Ariala with its body, and she could feel its growls reverberate against her belly. She could see the wolf’s individual claws, glossy ebony and curved to click against the stone floor.

“We shall see,” mused Andruil, and with another terrible laugh she unsheathed her blades, crouching low and gathering her weight. The wolf mirrored her, its teeth bared in a savage, seemingly endless snarl. Ariala pushed past the pain in her side and tried to think. If she allowed this, they would tear each other apart—she had to stop it—she had to—

“Andruil!” she screamed, just as the wolf and the huntress lunged for each other. They met in a boom of magic that left her ears ringing. Ariala staggered to her feet, clutching her inflamed arm, and watched as Andruil threw the wolf across the room. It slammed into the dresser, splintering the wood, but Andruil was on the animal before it could recover.

With a savage laugh, Andruil tossed one dagger to the side and wrapped her now-free hand around the wolf’s scruff, her fingers combing through the thick black fur to wrap around the neck as easily as if she’d done it a thousand times. _And she probably has,_ Ariala thought, horrified and paralyzed.

The wolf squirmed away from her and snapped at the huntress’s wrist, his teeth sinking into her arm and biting down hard. Andruil screamed as her wrist snapped and slashed at the wolf’s muzzle with her other dagger, but it danced away, out of reach of her blades.

Ariala’s arm spasmed, but she ignored the pain and dived for the discarded dagger, scooping it up and rolling onto her good side. Andruil and the wolf were too invested in their fight to notice. The wolf feinted left and darted right, but the huntress was ready for him, and brought up her foot to kick his windpipe. The wolf yelped as it scrambled away, retreating to the ruined wardrobe. Andruil advanced, her back to Ariala, and raised her blade.

Ariala hefted her dagger to her right hand and threw it as hard as she could. The blade whistled past Andruil’s ear, too close for comfort and several inches off Ariala’s aim, and embedded into one of the wardrobe’s doors. “Enough!” she screamed, loud enough to halt the fight.

Andruil turned, positioning herself so she could see both the wolf and Ariala. Her mangled hand gripped her shirt, and her braided hair had come undone to ensconce her head in a wild tangle. “He is not your prey, Andruil,” Ariala continued, wincing as her left arm’s muscle twitched in a white-hot spasm. “I am.”

“Quite,” replied the huntress, but she cast a murderous look toward the wolf. It saw and pulled its lips back, revealing curved canines stained with her blood. “But he is your protector.”

“Is this how you want your hunt?” Ariala asked. “In a cramped room, fighting the Dread Wolf for your right to kill me? Or would you rather have it be in the woods, wide open and free of any obstacles?”

Andruil’s brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes betraying her wariness. She cast a quick, narrow-eyed glance toward Ariala before she returned to watching the wolf. “What are you getting at, seth’lin?”

 _Seth’lin_ was Andruil’s favorite way to address her. Ariala refused to let her annoyance show. “I was the best huntress in my clan,” she said. Her stomach quivered, fear filling her heart and prickling her skin. Ariala lifted her chin and steeled her nerves. _The Game_ , she reminded herself. She had to play the Game. She knew what Andruil loved most—she just had to make her offer interesting. “Many said that I would have found your favor if you hadn’t been tricked and locked away. So I challenge you, Andruil—you may kill me, but only when you’ve bested me in a hunt.”

The wolf whined, his blue eyes that matched Solas’s exactly turning toward her, naked in their confusion. Ariala watched him, wishing above all else that she could comfort him somehow. His tail, raised and bristling, lowered to tuck between his legs, and the ears flattened against his head looked more forlorn than threatening. His lips lowered, concealing his teeth, and he almost took a step toward her until he thought better of it.

Andruil threw her head back and laughed. It was a hearty laugh, jovial and belly-deep, and the starlight the Well showed her left Ariala tasting ashes on her tongue. When Andruil’s fit was finished, she shifted her weight, giving her full attention to Ariala. Her golden eyes glittered with amusement, even as her wrist dripped blood onto the floor. “Oh? And what are the terms?”

“Ghilan’nain will create her swiftest, most elusive animal. We will both see it before it is released into the woods around this temple. After a thirty-minute wait, we hunt it. If I kill it first, then you release any vows of vengeance on the Dread Wolf. If you kill it, you can do with me what you see fit—and the Dread Wolf will not interfere—” The wolf whined when she said that, and she shot him a stern glare. “He. Will. Not. Interfere.”

Andruil’s smile was wide and toothy, her scar stretching over her face. “Very well. I accept your terms. Kill the beast before I do, and I leave you in peace. I swear it.”

The wolf lunged for her. Andruil turned on her heel, her dagger ready, and Ariala’s scream caught in her throat. But the wolf shifted in midair, his outline changing form until he was not a wolf at all but Solas. Solas landed in front of Andruil and grabbed her neck, lifting the huntress and slamming her against one of the balcony pillars.

“Swear it on Ghilan’nain’s blood,” he said, eyes flashing, and Ariala could see the cold anger shining in his eyes, the grim determination in the shadows of his cheek bones. His expression was startlingly familiar, though she’d only seen it once. _You—tortured and killed my friend!_

Andruil bared her teeth at him and he lifted her away from the pillar for the briefest moment, then slammed her into it again. Andruil’s head cracked against the stone, and Ariala took a half-step forward, unsure what to do. “ _Swear it_ , damn you!”

Andruil’s good hand dropped her dagger and clawed at his chokehold. He loosened his grip only enough for her to wheeze out, “I swear it on Ghilan’nain’s blood.”

When her oath was said, he was satisfied and let her go. Andruil sank against the pillar, swaying on her feet, but she soon recovered and strode toward Ariala. She stepped back, her legs bumping against the bed’s footboard. Solas moved to intercept the huntress, but Andruil avoided him and closed the distance between her and Ariala in a few long strides. Her good hand snatched Ariala’s chin and turned her head, forcing the Inquisitor to meet the huntress’ gaze.

“I will rip her limb from limb, Dread Wolf,” Andruil said, a vein pulsing in her forehead as she stared at Ariala. “And I will bathe in her blood as you howl your agony to the stars.”

The huntress released Ariala’s chin and left the room, her daggers discarded. Ariala gripped the footboard, her heart pounding too fast, too hard, and her breath coming in small, short gasps. She couldn’t get any air—why couldn’t she—

Solas was there, his soft hands replacing Andruil’s bruising grip, and lifted her face to his. “Please, vhenan, breathe,” he said, and when his hand rested over her racing heart she tried again. This time she sucked in enough air for her greedy lungs; the lightheadedness left somewhat, though the jitteriness remained. Her hands came up to grab his sleeves, her palms resting across his biceps.

Solas rested his forehead against hers, and in the quiet moments that followed Andruil’s departure she focused only on him, on his warmth, on his steady heartbeat and calm breaths. On how it felt to be in his arms again. Safe. Loved. A feeling she’d known best in the aravels of her clan and the sturdiness of Skyhold. Her eyes slipped closed without her realizing it and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close and resting her ear flat against his heart. Solas stroked her hair, clutching her to him and staying silent.

When her heart steadied and she no longer felt like the floor would collapse under her feet if she moved, she took a deep breath and pulled away. Solas let her go, but his fingertips trailed shivers across her skin when he lowered his hands. Ariala opened her eyes and met his gaze, unsure what to say.

Would he be angry with her? Scold her for her rashness, as he had countless times before? Or would he utilize sarcasm to get his point across?

He did none of those things. He breathed her name like he’d stumbled upon a treasure and sank a hand into her hair, pressing his lips to the apple of her cheek and breathing her in. She turned toward him and lifted her lips to his, and the world felt right once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arasha - my happiness  
> Sa'lath - my one/only love  
> Emma lath - my love  
> Seth'lin - thin-blood


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a rape mention in this chapter. it's only one sentence, nothing graphic, but take care of yourself. ily. :)
> 
> also, the response to this fic has BLOWN. ME. AWAY. thank you so much for reading! xx

“What is this?” Ariala asked when they reached the courtyard, smiling despite her exasperation. Dorian winked at her and left her side, joining Bull at the training ring. It was a beautiful summer night—warm, by Skyhold’s standards, and twilight had not yet set in. The weather was nice enough that it seemed everyone had come to watch her terrible dancing.

“My birthday, Your Worship!” hollered Krem across the courtyard. He climbed over the practice ring’s fence and joined her, giving her an easy grin. “That’s something worth celebrating, right? Everyone thinks you need some cheering up after Adamant.”

“C’mon, Lucky, show us your moves!” called Varric. One of his crossbow bolts missed the dummy and he laughed as he took a shot from the flagon of ale he was sharing with Sera. Ariala spotted Maryden and several soldiers exit the tavern, armed with lutes and drums, and started laughing, covering her face.

“Oh, no—” she groaned, but when Krem started to clap out a beat her grin widened. She shook her head, vowing to hunt Dorian down for this, and grabbed his hand. While the people around her clapped, Loranil beat on his drum, Maryden strummed her lute, and Krem swung her around in a messy but delightful jig.

Other couples joined them, and the bystanders contributed to the beat of their impromptu dance session by stomping their feet. Ariala spotted Blackwall and Josephine, Dorian and Bull, countless others—she was mainly stumbling along with Krem, her hands gripping his, and tripping over her own feet whenever she laughed too hard.

A fiddle joined the music, and she looked over to see the grinning templar Lysette joining the impromptu orchestra. The crowd assembled roared their approval, and the pace of the dance picked up. Krem laughed with her and released her with a spin. Ariala turned and was caught by Dorian before she even realized what had happened.

The orchestra paused, allowing the couples to catch their breath. “Did you plan this?” she asked. Dorian’s eyes gleamed in the fading light and his grin widened. “You’re a wretch,” she accused, affectionately.

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, winking, and then the band was playing again and she was participating in another whirlwind of an improvised dance. At the next lull, as the band figured out which merry tune to play next, Ariala stepped away from Dorian and turned to the observers.

Solas stood there, watching her with the faintest trace of a smile. “Solas!” she said, taking a step toward him and holding out her hand. There was a wide, breathless smile on Ariala’s face, not seen since Adamant, and none were more grateful for the change than her. “How many dances of ancient Arlathan did you witness in the Fade? C’mon, show me what you’ve got.”

“Ma nuvenin,” he replied, but he didn’t move. One of the soldiers yelled _take her hand, man_ and snickers broke through the gathering. Solas did not look for the offending voice, but his cheeks and ears turned pink as he took her hand. The crowd’s encouragements grew more raucous, whistles and shouts that made her blush.

“I saw many dances of Arlathan, true. But this outshines them all, vhenan,” he whispered to her as they took their place in a clearing. “No doubt this night’s joy is already being preserved by curious spirits. Yours in particular is a welcome sight.”

Ariala beamed at him. “Sweet talker.”

While the band struck up another drinking song, Solas did not give in to the urge to join their fellow dancers’ frenzied pace. Instead, he placed a hand on the curve of her lower back and threaded his fingers through hers. Ariala grinned as they began a series of slow steps, uncomplicated but elegant. He guided her through the dance with effortless grace, and as he spun her she asked where a wandering hobo apostate had learned to dance.

Solas pulled her flush against him, and she could feel every line of his body underneath his tunic. “I am a man of many talents, vhenan,” he all but purred, and then he dipped her.

“Kiss her!” someone shouted—likely the same soldier as before—and Solas smiled as he obliged.

 

“Isn’t it a beauty?”

Ariala turned to see Ghilan’nain walking toward her, smiling widely. Ariala blinked. Halla horns sprouted from the goddess’s head, claws curved in place of fingernails, and bloodstained leathery wings unfolded from her back. The Well had given her the impression several days ago, when Ghilan’nain had agreed to participate in her and Andruil’s challenge, but the sight still unsettled her. For all of Ghilan’nain’s sweetness, the Well’s impressions of her were by far the worst.

Ariala turned back to the apple tree, ripe with heavy red fruit. Beyond that was a manicured vegetable garden—the squash had come in, as well as fat orange fruit Ghilan’nain claimed made wonderful bread, and celery stalks for the halla. Furthermore, Dirthamen had discovered several fresh blueberry bushes while hunting with Andruil two days ago. Ghilan’nain had discovered the harvest last morning and promptly declared it a day of celebration.

“I used a little magic to help it along,” admitted Ghilan’nain with a toothy grin, her eyes rolling to the cloudless sky. She stepped closer to the apple tree and reached up, her knuckles missing an apple by an inch. Her hand hovered in the leaves for several long moments, and then she frowned. “Pity that I cannot see the fruits.”

“You could, once?” Ariala guessed, and Ghilan’nain nodded, her smile replaced by a disappointed purse of her lips.

“No matter. We can harvest them for dinner tonight. Come with me, da’lath’in.”

Dirthamen hadn’t called her that in the three days since he gave Andruil her name—hadn’t even spoken to her, really, though they engaged in glaring contests from time to time—but Ghilan’nain had picked it up enthusiastically. The halla mother lifted her hand and Ariala took it, despite her newfound wariness among the Dalish gods.

Ghilan’nain smiled at her and led her away from the blooming garden, tugging on her hand once they reached a patch of overgrown grass. Ariala sat down and Ghilan’nain knelt behind her, her fingers combing through her hair. “May I?” she asked, and when Ariala nodded, Ghilan’nain began to braid her hair. Fingertips threaded through the fine hairs at her temple and tugged them together, swift and gentle. “Thank you. I used to do this for my sisters, and Andruil when she wished. It calms me.”

Ariala said nothing, numb to everything but the warm afternoon air and Ghilan’nain’s hands in her hair. She nestled her hands in her lap and watched the uncut grass sway gently in the spring breeze. Ghilan’nain stilled, her puzzlement obvious in her voice when she said, “What is wrong, Ariala? Or should I call you Inquisitor?”

“Doesn’t matter,” replied Ariala. “I expected to die two days ago. Why haven’t you created your beast? I appreciate your kindness, my lady, but—”

“Ah.” Ghilan’nain laughed, and the next tug on her hair was a bit harder. “I see. I am the halla mother, graceful and gentle and kind above all. That is how you Dalish see me, yes? You think I delay my creation because I am kind?”

Ariala fisted her hands, fingernails digging crescents into her palms. “Well. Not anymore.”

 “I wish to ask you something, da’len. What do the Dalish say about me?”

This felt like a trick. Ariala swallowed and chose her words carefully, all while Ghilan’nain braided. “The Dalish say you were a devotee of Andruil. You were tricked by a hunter and left for dead in the woods, and Andruil turned you into the halla since you were blind. And then you became the youngest of the gods.”

So the Dalish said. The text from the Temple of Mythal said something wholly different. _Ghilan’nain kept herself apart from the People. She used her power to create monsters none had ever seen._

Ghilan’nain hummed. “Do you wish to know the truth about my ascension?”

“Go ahead,” Ariala said, with a halfhearted smile. “It’s not as if you’re the first god to tell me what the Dalish have gotten wrong.”

“The hunter was once a beloved of Andruil. When I rose to her side, I supplanted him as her favorite. At the same time, Andruil had bested Falon’Din in a competition of skill; Falon’Din was humiliated. He learned of me, and how precious I was to Andruil, and then he learned of the jealous hunter. Falon’Din found the jealous hunter and convinced him to lead me to an abandoned part of the woods.”

There was a long pause. Ariala drew in a breath, unsure why dread coiled in her gut. “He succeeded, I take it.”

“Indeed. The hunter kidnapped me from my bed and dragged me to the woods, bound and blinded me, and left me there. Falon’Din raped me, because he knew that my pain would be Andruil’s. And when he was done, he infected me with a foreign poison.”

Her tugs grew harder until Ariala winced every time there was a new twist in her left braid. Ghilan’nain noticed her harshness and sighed, heavily. Her touch gentled and she pulled Ariala’s hair to fall down her back. “Ir abelas, da’lath’in. These events happened millennia ago, yet they still sting when I think of them.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Ariala, fiercely. She had never imagined—how could Dirthamen have loved such a man? Falon’Din did not sound like the compassionate guide of the dead, gently carrying the souls of elves to the beyond. He sounded like a power-thirsty monster. She had once thirsted for the opportunity to meet him—and now there was no Creator she feared encountering more, except for Elgar’nan. “Thank you for sharing this with me, my lady.”

“I am stronger for what happened,” said Ghilan’nain, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The poison. We did not know it then, but he had found it in the Void, a place so dangerous Elgar’nan had forbidden all from going there. The only elves brave enough to walk that place were the Forgotten Ones, and they were twisted into monstrous shadows of their former selves for it.”

Ariala’s eyes widened. “Falon’Din infected you with the _Blight_?”

Ghilan’nain finished the left side of Ariala’s hair and moved on to the right side. “No. The Blight did not yet exist then. This was another poison, one that had no known cure. Andruil found me in the morning. I expected her to swear revenge on Falon’Din, but she fell by my side and, weeping, restored my sight and cut my bonds. But I was still poisoned, and dying in her arms. To buy me time, she gave me a shard of her own soul.”

 _She is a shard_ , Dirthamen and Solas had said. But a shard of who? Mythal? But the goddess was dead. Any magic of the All-Mother’s came from the Well of Sorrows; the augur in Stone-Bear Hold had seen that, and so had Ghilan’nain.

 _The Anchor,_ she thought, and despite the warm afternoon air felt a chill sweep through her. The Anchor was a shard of the Dread Wolf. It had to be. Her stomach twisted as a new thought came to her.

What if Solas only loved her because she carried a part of himself in her? What if he had only pretended to love her, the better to warm her to him? She would have been much more willing to give the orb and the Anchor’s power to her elvhen Fade-expert lover than anyone else.

An ingenious plan, a trick truly worthy of the Dread Wolf.

There was a lump caught hard in her throat and she couldn’t dislodge it.

Ariala swallowed hard, digging her nails into her palms. “So that’s how you rose to godhood.”

“Yes. Andruil went to great lengths to find me a cure. When I was healthy enough again, I began to craft my own creatures. I birthed monsters from the clay, Inquisitor. Sea drakes with teeth the size of ships, and jaws powerful enough to crush an army. Enormous lions with spiked tails and saber teeth and poisonous blood.”

“You created monsters none had ever seen,” Ariala quoted, her voice a terse whisper. Her discoveries at the Temple of Mythal had said the exact same thing, but it was one thing to read that and associate the mother of monsters with the gentle woman braiding her hair.

Ghilan’nain laughed and began to thread the two braids together. “The beast of a Dalish tale—the Slow Arrow, I believe—was mine. It was the first animal I made, and I sent it to spread terror and death throughout Falon’Din’s villages. I delighted in his followers’ slaughter, and I admired my children’s grace and deadliness. When Fen killed my firstborn, I created ten more just like it to spite him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Ariala, narrowing her eyes. “What do you gain?”

“You asked why I delayed the creation of this animal you and Andruil will hunt, and you thought it was because I was kind. Let me share with you a secret, da’lath’in—I am not kind. Dirthamen is not kind. Fen’Harel is not kind. He will feed you cruelty until you choke and call it _love_.”

“Thanks for the warning,” muttered Ariala. But she couldn’t deny that Ghilan’nain’s words struck a chord in her. _He will feed you cruelty until you choke and call it love_. There was something savage in her tone, something that reminded Ariala of Andruil’s fierceness, and it resonated in her.

Ghilan’nain’s fingers left her hair and rested on her shoulders. “I wish to see Fen’Harel suffer, yes, but I have no desire to see _you_ harmed to hurt him. I have been in that place before, da’lath’in, and I would not put it upon anyone, except Falon’Din. I want this creation to be perfect.” She squeezed Ariala’s shoulders. “Alas, it just so happens that perfection takes time.”

Ghilan’nain released her and stood up. “I must attend to the garden, Inquisitor. Please come by in a few hours to help me harvest the fruit for dinner.”

“Dar’atisha,” said Ariala, standing as well. Her limbs were jittery, and she smoothed her hand over her newest dress—another of Sylaise’s, deep emerald green with golden threads swirling throughout the skirt. Ghilan’nain had given Ariala one of her armbands, and the golden halla horns caught the light on her right arm.

Solas was waiting for her in her room. He smiled when he saw her, but his smile soon faded when he saw her expression. “Ma lath,” he said, reaching for her, and she recoiled from him.

“Do you love me?” she whispered, backing up until she hit a pillar.

Solas paused, frowning. “Of course I do. Vhenan—”

She shook her head. She’d asked the wrong questions—of course he wouldn’t tell her the truth, if she had confronted him. He would want to maintain the charade. “Don’t call me that. Please—don’t.”

He didn’t love her. He never had. He had only ever wanted the orb, and surely—when the time came—he would want the Anchor, and the piece of his soul in it. His love was only clever deception, the ghost of the real thing.

And she had fallen for it.

“Well done,” she whispered, hoarse, and held up a hand when Solas stepped closer. “Well _done_ , Dread Wolf. It was a clever trick. Are you proud?”

Solas faltered, then narrowed his eyes and closed the distance between them. She shut her eyes, refusing to let the tears welling in her eyes fall. “I saw you speaking with Ghilan’nain, vhenan,” he said, and she bit her tongue. He cupped her cheek, and the touch was so soft it drew a tear from her. It rolled down her cheek, and Solas caught it with his thumb before it dripped onto the floor. “What did she say to you? What did she put into your head?”

Ariala lifted her hand to her lips and bit down on her knuckles. “Vhenan’ara,” he whispered, soft and pleading, and he wiped away another tear. “Please tell me what troubles you.”

Ariala found the strength to reach up and fist her hands in his shirt. She ignored the urge to pull him closer, to allow him a chance to assuage her fears with whispered devotions and reverent caresses. Instead she gathered all her strength and shoved him away from her. She suspected she only succeeded because he allowed her to push her away.

“You’re always _lying_ to me!” she screamed at him, horrified at the steady stream of tears running down her face. Solas stilled, his eyes widening, looking like she had punched him in the gut. Ariala bit down on her lip and struggled to regain control of herself. She straightened and pointed to the door. Her voice was thick with tears but understandable. “Leave. Please.”

He stared at her for several moments. Just as she began to think he would stay, he left without a word, his expression stormy. Ariala shut the door behind him and turned, covering her face with her hand. She slid down the door, trying and failing to stifle her wracking sobs.

_What were you like, before the Anchor? Has it—affected you? Changed you in any way?_

She several deep breaths, but his absence did not help stop her tears. If anything, it sharpened the pain in her chest. She clutched her Anchored hand to her chest and allowed herself the tears she’d denied herself two years ago, and all the while she wished for Dorian, or Cole, or Varric. She had ignored the homesickness to focus on the gods and the future they planned, but now—now she missed them so much it was a physical ache in her heart.

If this had been Skyhold, Dorian would’ve come up, declaring _Solas an ass as always_ , and he would’ve held her as she cried herself to sleep. And the next day, he would have taken her to the tavern to get drunk on Bull’s swill. And if a few books fell from his hands while he was reading, well, everyone knew that books were _terribly_ slippery.

If this had been Skyhold, Cole would have brought the newest litter of kittens to her room by the armful, and she would’ve forgotten all her pain to watch the kittens play. He would’ve brought her fresh flowers from the garden and tucked them into her hair, silent, because he knew she didn’t need empty words.

If this had been Skyhold, Varric would’ve made her laugh until she forgot why she’d been crying in the first place. He’d regale her with stories about Kirkwall and his adventures and let her read his terrible first draft of his new book. He’d have taken her down to the courtyard for an archery contest, and Sera would’ve joined on principle, telling them about her latest pranks around the castle.

But this was not Skyhold, and she was utterly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i guess angst is my crack or smth idk it gets better i promise
> 
> ELVISH:  
> Ma nuvenin - as you wish  
> Dar'atisha - go in peace  
> Ma lath - my love  
> Vhenan'ara - my heart's desire


	14. Chapter 14

Dorian awoke with a start. His fingers drifted to his abdomen. It was still wrapped tight in gauze, but it hadn’t bled through in days. When no muscles twitched in protest, he dropped his hand and lifted his head.

His roommate Josephine was awake, but immobile. She was propped against a mountain of pillows, but the unhealthy pallor had left her cheeks, and she was watching the sunset. When he moved, her eyes slid to him.

“Good evening,” she greeted, giving him a weak smile. Dorian smiled back and stood up, watching the sunset through the glass windows. When he’d closed his eyes for a little nap, it had been midafternoon. The sky was now painted deep hues of pink and red and orange.

“I overslept,” he commented, mildly. The feeling of knowing, just on the tip of his tongue, had returned from its slumber with a vengeance.

His name was Dorian—but Dorian who? _Dorian who?_

He reached for the memories and clenched them around his fist. It was not a rush of information—it was more of a ‘Eureka!’ moment, the heartbeat it took to snap one’s fingers and realize the answer had been known all along. One second the information wasn’t there, and the next, it was.

His name was Dorian of House Pavus, of Qarinus. He was a Tevinter mage, son of a dying Magister. His teeth were clean. And his best friend, the woman he loved most in the world, was missing. Had been missing for weeks.

Dorian clasped his hands in front of him and turned to face Josephine, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “And how are you feeling today, Lady Montilyet?”

Josephine gasped, her hands raising to cover her mouth and her eyes sparkling. “Lord Dorian!” she said, and he returned her grin. She reached for him and he crossed the few strides of space between them, sitting on the bed beside her. Josephine squeezed his hands and smiled so hard he was sure her cheeks would begin to ache. “You remember? Wonderful!”

“And it only took me a week,” he quipped, feeling better than he had since the attack. “You’re looking well, yourself. I’m glad. Where is Bull? Do you know?”

Josephine’s smile dimmed, but only a little. “He and the remaining Chargers went on ahead. He came to say goodbye, but… you were asleep, and he didn’t want to disturb your rest. We are beginning to transfer our forces in Lady Volant’s chateau back to Skyhold. We can only impose on her hospitality for so long.”

Dorian frowned at the mention of Bull; he had wanted to share the good news with him. _I’ll surprise him, then_ , he thought, and the guilt that had begun to gnaw at him left. He disentangled his hands from Josephine’s and stood up.

“We were _attacked_. Surely Lady Volant understands that?”

“Of course she does,” said Josephine, and her eyes screwed shut as she coughed into a handkerchief tightly balled in one of her hands. She pulled the handkerchief back, exposing clean white linen, and sighed in palpable relief. “But Cullen and Cassandra seem to think our position… a weakness. We would be better suited at Skyhold, and I am inclined to agree with them.”

The door opened, and Dorian and Josephine’s heads turned as one. Leliana entered, beaming when she saw them sitting together. An elven servant—the only servant Dorian had seen in this house, to think of it—scurried in after her and began to clean the room.

“Josie!” Leliana cried. Josephine sat up, inhaling sharply as she did so, but she waved Dorian’s hands away. Leliana sat on the other side of the ambassador, opposite of Dorian, and smoothed back a sweaty strand of hair. “How are you feeling?”

Josephine exhaled and offered a tremulous smile. “I would like to show you something,” she said. “Please, get anyone who wishes to come. Cassandra, Cullen, Varric… I have a surprise for you all.” When Leliana left, more than a little puzzled, Josephine turned to Dorian. “I will require your help, Dorian.”

Dorian nodded, watching the elven servant as she returned with the empty chamberpot and began to strip the sheets off his bed. As she did so, Josephine began to explain her plan to him. Dorian raised an eyebrow—she had tried this before, and it had been a dismal failure—but he agreed to help her.

It didn’t take long for the remaining members of the Inquisition to return—Cullen and Cassandra were the only ones to accompany Leliana—but each looked relieved when Josephine greeted them with a dimpled smile.

“Well, Josie?” asked Leliana. “What is this surprise?”

“You will like it, I promise,” Josephine assured, raising a hand. “Dorian?”

Dorian held out his hand, and she took it. With her other hand, she pushed herself off of the bed. Dorian stood up as her toes brushed the floor, prepared to catch her. The last time she’d tried this, she’d collapsed in a heap and stammered out an apology to all present.

Josephine stumbled into his arms and pushed away, her cheeks flushing. “I—oh. My apologies.” She gripped his hands as she stood fully and nodded to him. Dorian made sure she was steady before he released her hand and stepped backward. Josephine closed the distance between them, and Dorian stepped away again.

The others watched in silence as Josephine walked across the room, without stopping or falling. When Josephine sat back down on the bed, Leliana smiled as she clasped her hands behind her back. “Well done, Josie! That—”

A door banged shut downstairs, making the elven servant jump. “Lady Montilyet!” cried an unfamiliar voice, feminine and thickly accented. An Orlesian woman ascended the stairs, pulling off her riding gloves and fanning herself with them. She was flushed underneath her mask, even though she had an absurdly wide-brimmed hat that almost didn’t fit through the doorway. She shoved past the Inquisition leaders and stopped at the foot of Josephine’s bed. “Lady Montilyet! Josephine!”

“Everyone, this is Lady Guinevere Volant, our wonderful hostess and a dear friend,” introduced Josephine. Lady Volant caught her breath, and Josephine’s brow creased in worry. “Whatever is the matter, Guinevere?”

Lady Volant seemed to notice the other guests for the first time. Her exposed throat turned ruddier and she dropped into a half-hearted curtsey. “Forgive me, it’s so dreadfully hot outside. I rushed here as fast as I could. The summer is creeping upon us.”

Wordlessly, the elven servant moved to open the window, and Lady Volant nodded her thanks without looking at the woman. When the window was open, the servant went on to light the candles to combat the growing darkness outside.

“What is the matter, Lady Volant?” Cassandra prompted.

“Ah, yes.” Lady Volant’s hands fluttered in front of her, her wrists tilted and fingers curled in that strange Orlesian mannerism. “I arrived at Val Chevin yesterday evening. This morning, I went to Madame Vuitton to pick up the dresses you had ordered several days ago, Josie. But they were not ready!”

Cullen snorted. “ _This_ is your emergency? The dresses are not ready?”

Lady Volant swatted him with one of her gloves, her eyes icy behind her mask. “None of that! Your distaste for fashion is a travesty, monsieur. Madame Vuitton is a master of her craft, sought after by all the nobility. She once crafted exquisite ballgowns for the Empress that set the fashions for _years_ —”

Josephine cleared her throat. Guinevere turned her attention from Cullen, who shot the ambassador a grateful look at being spared a lecture.

“And so, with all her fame, she cannot handle the bulk of orders by herself, oui? To solve this problem, she has hired dozens of elven assistants. Seamstresses, tailors, cordwainers, all hand-picked and hand-trained by her. Her shop is always full of working elves!”

 “What are you saying?” Cassandra asked, slowly. There was something niggling in the back of Dorian’s mind, something familiar about this story—

“I went into the shop this morning and it was _empty!_ Madame was working on her orders alone. She told me that her workers hadn’t shown up for work the day before, either.”

Ah, yes. That. The mass disappearance of any and all Orlesian elves.

“I walked through Val Chevin, and it was the same everywhere. The mayor has no clerks. Bakers and butchers must manage the stores by themselves. There are no street-sweepers to clean up the roads, no servants or errand-boys. The alienage was empty, even of beggars. The elves are simply… gone!”

“Like Val Royeaux,” said Cullen, his eyes narrowing. All nodded, except for Lady Volant. She simply fanned herself again, her panting breaths beginning to slow. Dorian had to wonder how hard she’d ridden to get here—from the sound of it, Lady Volant had crossed all of the empire instead of a few hard hours’ distance.

“It is the same in Lydes,” sighed Josephine. “I have received several requests from Lady Monette for the Inquisition’s aid in searching for them.”

“It is a priority, Josie,” insisted Lady Volant. “Orlais’s economy depends on the elves—”

“I am well aware of that, Gwen,” said Josephine, wincing as she readjusted her position on the pillows. “But after what happened in Lydes—”

“What happened in Lydes?” Dorian interjected, crossing his arms. The elven servant lingered in the shadows of the open window, quiet and unable to hide the rapt curiosity on her oval face. Dorian glanced at her for a moment and then turned his attention back to Josephine.

Josephine rubbed a hand over her face and sighed, heavily. “It was… a reform of Marquise Briala’s. Lydes’ alienage walls were torn down, and human landlords encouraged to rent their empty apartments to elves. But most refused to house elves, and the ones that didn’t inflated the prices.”

When Josephine paused, Leliana cleared her throat and shifted her weight. “One elf who did manage to get an apartment on his own… was found murdered several days after. ‘Go home, knife-ears’ was written on the wall in his blood.”

Josephine winced. “Ah. I was not told of that.”

“Then Briala is responsible for this,” said Cullen, straightening. “If we find her, we find the missing elves. And perhaps we can take her into custody for her role in Anora’s assassin—”

“The Ambassador is innocent,” said the elven servant, very softly. She didn’t have an Orlesian accent. Lady Volant turned to her first and her fluttering stilled, her eyes widening underneath her mask.

“Who—who are you?” she asked, panicked. “You are not one of my servants.”

The elven servant finished lighting the last candle, situated by the window. She blew out the taper and set it down, her back to them. The sun had set fully now, bathing the unfamiliar woman in golden light and turning her red hair scarlet. “I’m a messenger,” she continued, turning around and backing up until her back hit the windowsill.

“Speak your message, then,” Cullen said, narrowing his eyes. “What has Briala done with the Inquisitor? We know they were together in Val Royeaux.”

The messenger shrugged. “A stroke of luck. My words are meant specifically for the Inquisitor, but I suppose your ears will work just as well, flat as they are. The Marquise will not return with the elves until all her demands have been met.”

“Demands? A woman guilty of regicide is arrogant enough to _demand_ something from us?” asked Cassandra, incredulous. Leliana placed a hand on her arm and gave the servant-messenger a shrewd look.

“And what are the Marquise’s requests?” asked the Divine.

“That’s between the Ambassador and the Inquisitor,” replied the elf. “You have sent only a handful of soldiers to look for her, while the rest of the Inquisition looks to Ferelden and prepares for war. It is a waste. First, find your leader, your precious Herald. Briala isn’t done with her yet.”

The moment she was done speaking, she kicked over the end table. Its fall extinguished the candle and the messenger leapt up onto the thin wooden ledge, using the height gain to hoist herself up and over the windowsill. Dorian followed her and poked his head out of the window, searching for a dark shape running through the lawn. When his eyes saw nothing, he sent little balls of light to scatter across the lawn, but that approach also brought up nothing.

The messenger was gone. There was nothing to indicate she had ever been present, save for the upturned end table.

Dorian climbed back down and dusted himself off. “Briala isn’t done with her yet,” he repeated, his face scrunching in distaste. “Was it just me, or did that sound far more ominous than necessary?”

* * *

He arrived in the cover of darkness. The grass crunched softly under his feet, and the moonlight shone upon his skin and turned parts of it silver. One of the windows in the manor was open, and he could see a slave-woman sweeping, humming softly to herself.

He had climbed in through the window in near-silence, but the elf still turned, golden collar tinkling alongside the rings in the ridge of a pointed ear. She saw him and gasped, and he had her shoved against the wall before she could so much as scream.

He covered her mouth with a hand, pressing down to keep her pinned to the wall. With his other hand, he slowly lifted a finger to his lips. The slave woman’s eyes widened as she took him in, and several minutes passed with nothing but harsh breathing to fill the silence.

At last, she whimpered and nodded, and he let her go. She fell to her knees at his feet, her face upturned to him. He didn’t like the way she looked at him and knelt as well, until they were eye to eye. The candlelight illuminated the tears on her face, trickling down her cheeks in silence.

“You’re here,” she breathed, and covered her mouth to stifle a near-silent sob. “You’re here, _at last_.”


	15. Chapter 15

Ariala lowered her hand when she heard arguing. She got to her feet and stood behind a pillar, watching the scene in the garden unfold. Dirthamen had joined Ghilan’nain, and was in the process of harvesting apples. When Solas approached them, however, their work stopped.

“What did you say to her?” Solas demanded, his furious Elvish too archaic for even the most learned Keeper—but Ariala understood him, concentrated on the translations the Well provided her until her head ached. “What lies did you put into her head?”

“Lies?” Ghilan’nain asked, and Ariala could see the barest trace of a smile on her face. “We’ve said so many in our years, Fen. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Their conversation descended into rapid Elvish too fast even for the Well, with Dirthamen interjecting occasionally. Solas stepped forward, his hands clenching into fists, and Ghilan’nain shook her head, snapping something in Elvish that immediately made Solas’s shoulders slump.

Ariala watched, her fingers pressed against the cold stone pillar, and stilled when Ghilan’nain tilted her face up. To Solas, it would look as if she were looking at the sky in exasperation—but Ariala could see the halla mother’s blind gaze on her.

Ghilan’nain touched Dirthamen’s arm and laughed. It was a savage laugh, more suited to Andruil than anyone else, but coming from her mouth it seemed as natural as her sweetest smile.

“Take note, Dirthamen,” she said, and laughed again. “This is how you break a god.”

Solas began to turn, and Ariala ducked behind the pillar before he saw her, her heart pounding.

 

He returned to her at sunset, with an offering. Ariala sat on the bed, her dress discarded for a more comfortable hunting tunic and nothing else. When he stepped through the door rather than between the pillars, she looked up, surprise flickering over her face before she reigned it in and replaced it with a carefully neutral mask.

Solas approached her with careful steps, as if she were a timid halla calf, ready to bolt at any moment. She watched him as he sat beside her and handed her his offering. Ariala took the cup from his hands and stared down at the golden-brown liquid, her cheeks twitching in a smile before she battled the urge away.

“You made me tea,” she said, inhaling the mint that wafted up in thin vapored curls. The cup was still warm in her hands. She looked from the tea to Solas, just in time to see him look away from her.

“I could not think of a suitable enough apology,” he said, his ears turning pink. “I apologize if it is not to your liking. I had to find the mint leaves on my own after I argued with Ghilan’nain.”

“Where did you get the cup?”

“As this temple fell into disrepair, the priests placed seals on several rooms, preserving everything inside as it was. Such rooms were where we found the silverware, the beds, the clothing…” he trailed off, clearing his throat.

Ariala took a hesitant sip and made a face. He’d put in too much water, but he didn’t need to know that. She smiled after her grimace, to soften any blow. “Thank you,” she told him, sincerely.

They stared at each other for a moment that seemed to drag on for hours, and her smile returned to neutrality. She continued to watch him, her heart aching with every beat. It was not a sweet ache, the kind she had felt when she’d kissed him three days ago. It was a pain that lingered, hooking its claws into her heart as it burrowed its way into the very center of her chest.

She hated it. She hated feeling so much. She did not want to be a da’lath’in, or to weep over dead elves, or to _ache_ for this god—this _man_ who had stolen her identity and called it a gift, who had left her with more questions than answers, who had been lying to her since the first.

Solas inhaled, sharp and ragged, and looked away. He stood up and clasped his hands behind his back, watching the sunset fade to twilight. The dying sky painted his skin golden-orange, turned his eyes black instead of blue.

“You have questions,” he said. He didn’t look at her. “Ask them.”

For a moment, Ariala thought she had misheard him. She stared at him, her fingers tightening on the cup, and took a deep breath.

This was her chance. She could ask him why he gave the orb to Corypheus. Why he had left her in the Grove and refused to tell her why. Why he left. What his plans were.

Instead, her voice shook as she asked, “What have we done to each other?”

Solas stilled, his eyes flitting from the sunset to her. His lips parted on a breath, his mask softening to let slip the uncertainty that brewed beneath. Ariala wet her lips and placed the cup on the bed, waiting for his answer, but all he did was step toward her. He took another step, and another, until he was kneeling at her feet and they were at the same eye level. He reached for her hands and she met him halfway, threading their hands together and savoring his touch. She lowered her head until their foreheads rested against the other.

“You left me in the glen,” she whispered, and Solas shut his eyes until the corners of his eyes creased. He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but she continued on without him. “Let me speak.”

He shut his mouth and did not open his eyes. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, horrified and infuriated that her eyes were welling with tears for the second time that day. She had never been much of a crier—and when she did, it had always been behind closed doors. Never in front of others. Never.

Now, it was as if her soul had grown fed up with the grief nestled in all the niches of her body and opened its palms to let it flow out, and she could not control its tide.

“I thought I’d lanced the wound you left in me. I tried to harden my heart to a cutting edge, like you said, because I knew it was for the best—I built a wall around myself, you know this, but it didn’t _work_. Nothing worked. I can’t stop feeling things, no matter how hard I try, and some days I feel so much I want to tear my heart out of my chest if only so I can stop _feeling_ —”

“No.” Solas cut her off, calm, firm, tender. His hands disentangled themselves from hers and lifted, cradling her face. He opened his eyes, revealing blues glassy with tears, and he tilted her head until she was looking down at him. “No. Vhenan, please, listen to me. Your kindness, your empathy, your compassion—all are things I love about you. All exist in you because you _feel_. You feel, vhenan, you feel so much you fear you will char yourself on its heat. You are stronger for it. Hate me with all the strength of your heart, if you wish. Despise me for the fool and coward and liar that I am, so long as you feel _something_.”

His eyes pleaded with her, and his throat jerked in a swallow. Ariala couldn’t meet his gaze, and even as tears coursed down her cheeks she clenched her jaw in an attempt to quiet her noise. “Love,” she whispered, scoffing. She hiccupped and wiped a tear away with the back of her wrist. “What happened to—harden your heart—”

“That was foolishness, the notion of a heartsick man who thought he knew best.”

She pushed his hands away and stood up. “How can you speak of love?” she asked, hoarsely, her voice rising. “You were gone for _two years_. I had moved on! I… _thought_ I had—” she faltered, changing to a new topic. “How can you speak of love, when you control the Well, and me, by extension? What if I did move on, and seeing you again—what if you wanted me to love you and I had no choice—”

 “You think I haven’t asked myself these things?” Solas asked, rising to his feet. She turned to him, and he fisted a hand by his waist, his lips pursed and his helplessness evident in his eyes. He didn’t seem angered by her words—only as though she was confirming his own private, terrible theory.

“You think I haven’t wondered if every one of our conversations was influenced by the Well? You think I haven’t thought that, perhaps, you were lying through your teeth every time you spoke to me? That while you kissed me, you were clawing at your internal prison, _screaming_ for freedom—”

He stopped himself, sitting heavily on the bed with a world-weary sigh. The bed’s movement made the cup of tea roll off the covers, spilling cooling mint tea across the stone floor. Solas watched the stain spread, his expression unreadable.

Ariala stared at him in silence. At last, as the sunset faded to twilight and the pinks and reds gave way to dark midnight blue, she crossed to him, ignoring the tea that wet her feet. Her fingertips brushed his cheekbone and Solas shut his eyes at her touch, breath leaving him in a quiet exhale.

She should hate him. She should despise him for his lies, tell him that he had permanently lost her trust, because if there was one thing she could not abide in others, it was dishonesty. And Solas had been, above all things, dishonest. He’d deceived her about his past, his name… potentially, even, his feelings for her.

“Was your love a lie as well?” she asked. Her heart was sick and sore, and she was sure it came across in her voice.

“Never,” he declared, opening his eyes and staring at her with a steady, unwavering gaze. “If you believe only one thing I tell you, know that it is this. When I woke from uthenera, I found the remnants of Elvhenan, choking on their last, dying breaths. I was a jaded man, too consumed by my mistakes to see anything good in the world. You, Ariala Lavellan—you marched into my life and showed me that there was more to life than grief and bitterness. Your warmth touched my soul and taught me how to feel again. I am indebted to you for it.”

How could she hate him? How could she hate him when his words hooked into her heart and pulled it open, exposing it to the elements and leaving it tender and raw? How could she hate him when her love for him warmed the empty spaces he’d left behind?

“I can’t let you go,” she whispered.

She did not say it like a confession. She said it with the same weariness a man fleeing from his tireless pursuers might stop, turn around, and say, exhausted, _I give up_.

“Nor I you,” he said, in the same tone. He opened his eyes and stared at her, his gaze more grey than blue. “It would be easier to gift you the stars and the moon than to walk away from you again.”

One of his hands came up to her wrist, pushing up the hunting tunic’s sleeve until her bicep was exposed to the air and to his gaze. He ran his fingertips over her skin, examining the damage his magic had left behind. He had healed the burn, but the electricity had left a scar. Where there had once been bare golden skin, there was now a lightning tree patterned like vandal aria leaves cascading down her bicep.

His forehead was creased, his brows lowered in visible worry. She silenced his imminent apology by placing a finger on his lips, and he dragged his gaze from her arm to her eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered against her skin, and kissed her fingertip.

 _This is how you break a god_ , Ghilan’nain had said. The guilt in his eyes wracked at her heart.

“For what?” she asked, softly.

“I have committed many wrongs against you, vhenan, and I will continue to commit many more, fool that I am. What you deem forgivable is for you to decide.”

The words were on her tongue. _Ar lanastan_ , she could have said. _I forgive you_. But they remained in her mouth, festering and cold, and she did not grant her forgiveness because she knew that she would not mean it.

Instead, she pulled her finger away and sat on the bed, pulling him down with her. When she placed her hand on his shoulder, Solas draped an arm across her waist, careful and loose. She could’ve escaped it easily, if she so wished. Only when she scooted closer did he tighten his hold and pull her fully against him. “Stay with me tonight,” she said, and he kissed the crown of her head, murmuring a soft _ma nuvenin_ that fanned warm across her cheek.

Ariala didn’t know how long she stayed awake. It could have been seconds, or minutes, or hours. But Solas held her all the while, silent and strong, until at last her mind quieted and she was able to sleep.

When she closed her eyes and slipped into the Fade, he, the Inquisition, and her siblings were waiting for her at Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AM I ON A ROLL OR WHAT
> 
> ELVISH:  
> Arasha - my happiness  
> Ar lanastan - (constructed) I forgive you  
> Ma nuvenin - as you wish


	16. Chapter 16

Ariala woke up at dawn in Solas’s arms. She almost smiled at him, at how peaceful he looked while he was still deeply asleep. But then the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she twisted. Solas’s arms tightened around her and he murmured something into his pillow. Ariala still turned, only to see Andruil leaning against the pillar, staring at her. Several bows were slung across her shoulder.

The huntress raised a finger to her lips, then padded over to Solas’s side with near-silent footsteps. She hovered a hand over his temple and whispered Elvish too inaudible for Ariala to hear. Her fingertips glowed tawny-gold and Solas sighed, his hold around Ariala’s waist loosening.

Ariala’s mouth was too dry to speak. Andruil saw her questioning look, however, and shrugged. “He shall sleep for a little longer. You promised that he would not interfere, did you not? The only way that happens is if he sleeps.”

Ariala found her voice. “Is—Ghilan’nain’s creature is ready?”

“Yes. Get dressed, and choose your bow.” One by one, she carefully unstrung the bows from her shoulders and lowered them to the ground. The night sky was lightening now, with only a thin crack of white to indicate the sun’s imminent presence.

Ariala carefully weighed each one, testing its weight in her hands, and settled on a recurved shortbow with vines engraved in the wood. Andruil did not look pleased at her choice, but she gathered up the remaining bows. “One hour, Inquisitor, else our deal is off.”

Ariala nodded, and waited until the huntress had left before allowing herself to exhale. Her hands shook so hard she couldn’t hold her bow, so she rested it against a pillar and sat on the cold stone floor. She ran a hand through her braid, undoing it carefully until it hung in loose waves around her shoulders.

Ariala swallowed and snuck a glance at the sleeping Solas. The arm that had held her to him was splayed across the sheets, his palm upturned and fingers reaching for something that wasn’t there. They twitched once, and his breathing deepened.

One hour. She had one hour to live, and then she would be dead, with an arrow through her eye or throat or heart.

Ariala hadn’t wanted to die like this. She’d wanted to die in her bed, her hair silver with age, with her family surrounding her. She’d wanted to die in peace, to look upon her life and say, _I am content_. She’d wanted to do so much more—

“But you fought _dragons_ , asa’ma’lin,” a voice whispered, lyrical and soft, and she bit her lip, her shoulders shuddering in an effort to muffle her sudden sob. Cole stepped from behind a pillar’s shadow, his eyes wide as he crouched next to her and spoke in Ellana’s rhythm. “You loved, and lost, and longed, but you lived. You showed the shems the Dalish grit. And now you’re giving up? Just like that?”

“What can I do?” she asked, wondering if the Veil was stretched so thin that Ellana stood next to Cole, visible to him but not to her. She’d been able to feel the barrier between the world and the Fade at times, before the Anchor became dormant. Maybe if she was a mage, she’d be able to sense it. Maybe she’d be able to sense her sister again. “Andruil will win, no matter what.”

Cole cocked his head, as though listening, and he half-smiled. “You don’t need to make it easy for her, you know.”

And then Ellana’s cadence dropped from his voice as he repeated her own words. “I didn’t kill Corypheus just to roll over and die at Andruil’s hands.”

“Cole,” she whispered, her voice hitching. “How long have you been here?”

“Just now,” he said, equally soft. “You needed me.”

Ariala couldn’t stop her sob that time. She rested her hands on his shoulders and pulled him forward into a tight hug. Cole hadn’t understood the purpose of hugs once, had squirmed away from her the first few times she hugged him. Once he realized that it helped in its own way, he was more than willing to undergo the physical touch it required.

He wrapped his arms around her and held tight, and if she closed her eyes she could almost imagine she was hugging Mahanon instead of a spirit. “You didn’t, before, but now you do. Dark despair, creeping, consuming, chilling your gut—I’m here,” Cole murmured to her.

“Are you going to tell the others where I am?” she asked, pulling away from the hug. She laughed, a mirthless sound. “Is anyone alive?”

“Dalish died of saar-qamek,” said Cole, matter-of-fact. “So did Skinner, and Krem lost an eye. Some Seekers died protecting the Divine, but not Cassandra. Dorian has a scar on his back. He’s ashamed of it. I told him that he got it protecting you, but he still doesn’t like it. Cullen’s shoulder hurts, but he worries for you more.”

Ariala exhaled, a fresh set of tears brimming in her eyes. Dorian was alive, and so was Cassandra. Krem was as well. The relief that swept through her, the closure that came with the knowledge, was startling. She squeezed Cole’s hands again. “Thank you.”

Cole looked at Solas then, as if he’d just noticed the sleeping elf. He frowned. “He made me forget. I didn’t like it.”

“That’s why I’m always telling you to stop doing it to other people,” she teased, but her smile was half-hearted at best. Cole stared at Solas for a long time, then looked back at her.

“He… knows something’s wrong. He’s fighting the spell, desperate, despairing, _what if I’m too late_? He doesn’t understand why you’re doing this.”

Ariala took a deep breath and stood up. If Cole spoke the truth—and she had no doubt that he did—then she didn’t have much time left. She dressed with trembling hands, exchanging her hunting tunic for a fresh one. The replacement was deep green, loose enough that she could move without too much fabric getting in her way.

She shrugged on a vest, her hands shaking too hard to properly lace it. Cole was there in a heartbeat, his hands replacing hers, and he tightened it as if she’d done it herself. She gave him a weak smile of thanks and reached out to touch him, still unable to believe that he’d heard her pain from—wherever he was. Or maybe her hurt was more familiar to him.

Cole let her touch his hair, but his gaze was still on Solas. “Why don’t you wake him up?” Cole asked, his brow furrowing. “You don’t want to die alone.”

“I don’t want him to see me with an arrow in my chest. I want him to remember me as I was, when I wasn’t coughing up blood and dying in his arms.” Tragedy seemed to be sewn into her bones, but if she could prevent Solas from witnessing her death, then she would spare him that in a heartbeat. It was bound to be messy, anyway.

“Cole,” she murmured, breaking the silence that had fallen, and his attention was back on her. “Return to the others. Tell them… tell them I’m all right. Tell them I’ll be at Skyhold as soon as I can, and make sure they don’t look for me.”

Cole frowned. When he didn’t reply, she grabbed his hand. “Promise me, Cole.”

The spirit tilted his head at her, blinking rapidly before he nodded. “Yes. I… promise. They won’t like it, but it helps you. I’ll tell them.”

And with that, he was gone.

She pulled on her leathers and slung her bow over her shoulder. She didn’t know how much time she had left, but she didn’t want to waste any more precious minutes. Still, she hesitated at the balcony, looking over her shoulders at Solas. He was deeply asleep, but his face was twisted—into fear or something worse, she could not say. But the peace she’d seen before was gone.

Ariala’s steps led her to his side again, and she hovered over his sleeping form. She slowly climbed onto the bed, careful not to disturb it too much, and stopped in front of him. “Goodbye, ma’sal’shiral,” she whispered, brushing a kiss against the corner of his lips. “Forgive me.”

_Valor, protect him. Faith, guide him. Ensure his worst fear never comes to pass._

She was tempted to lay down, nestle into Solas’s side, and wait for the hour to pass. If Andruil killed her, then at least she would die in Solas’s arms, rather than out in the woods, alone.

But she knew her death would devastate him. She knew that if he was there to watch her die, his pain would be tenfold. She was kind. She would spare him that.

Ariala maneuvered off the bed with as much care as when she’d gotten on. Solas murmured something in his sleep, more like a sigh than words, and his fingers twitched, as if he could feel her absence. She swallowed hard, her hands shaking, and left before her fool heart did something drastic.

The others were waiting for her in the main courtyard. Dirthamen stood alone, and Andruil was examining her arrows. When the huntress saw Ariala, she tossed her a quiver stuffed full of arrows, razor-sharp and edged with steel. Ariala picked it up and slung it over her shoulder, practicing notching the arrows to make sure they were easily accessible. She was surprised that Andruil seemed to be giving her the best equipment, but she wasn’t about to complain. She needed every advantage to win this hunt.

Ghilan’nain had brought out her creation. It was a deer like creature: black and deep brown constituted most of its hide, with the exceptions of its white face and black-and-white striped legs. It had cloven hooves, like a goat or pig, and for a moment Ariala wondered if she’d be able to tell the difference between this beast and the rams that roamed the forest. The creature’s eyes darted from Andruil to Ariala, and a pink tongue shot out to lick at black lips.

Ghilan’nain whispered soothing Elvish to the animal. Whatever words Ariala didn’t know, the Well filled for her. “Peace, my dear,” the halla mother told the beast. When the wild thing’s breathing steadied and it calmed under her touch, Ghilan’nain shook her head and unhooked her tether.

A snap of magic on the beast’s rump sent it hurtling into the forest with a shrill cry. Ariala’s chest tightened as she watched it disappear into the woods. Andruil walked to the edge of the temple, and Ariala joined her. They waited in silence.

The sun was rising, warming the chilly air, but Ariala’s breath was still visible when she sighed an exhale. “Nervous?” Andruil asked, shooting her a sly look. “Best accept it, seth’lin. The forest will drink in your blood soon enough.”

“Charming,” Ariala deadpanned. “I bet you get all the ladies when you talk like that.”

Andruil’s smugness disappeared, replaced by clear puzzlement, which shifted into her lips thinning into a displeased line. “Your smart mouth does you no credit.”

Ariala shrugged, too nervous to reply. Her heartbeat was at a hummingbird’s pace, her thoughts racing nearly as fast, and her feet were numb to the dew wetting her soles. “How long will your enchantment hold?” she asked, not needing to clarify.

Andruil’s smile returned, stuffed fuller with smugness, as if she were making up for her momentary lack of it. “Long enough.”

 _Long enough for me to kill you_ , Ariala translated, something foreign twisting between her gut and lungs. It wasn’t fear—that was an emotion she knew all too well. _This_ was warmer, settling deep whereas fear was a momentary thing, overwhelming her nerves. It took her a few seconds to realize that what she felt was dread.

The rest of the thirty minutes passed in tense silence. At last, Dirthamen lowered his hood and lifted his gaze to the morning sky. “Now,” he said. Andruil ran first, and Ariala followed her, avoiding a low-hanging branch and scanning the loose dirt for any hoof prints.

By the time she found a set of tracks she was certain didn’t belong to any ram, she knelt beside it, examining the direction. Her bare feet dug into the dirt, and she inhaled the crisp air, absorbing the sounds of the forest. It had been two years since she’d done this, and as she examined the beast’s hoofs, she felt a lingering sense of doubt. Even if she had been at her best, it was nothing to what she’d been two years ago, when she still went out in the field to close rifts regularly, or even when she was still with her clan. She was bound to lose this gamble, one way or another.

_But I don’t have to make it easy for her._

“Fly straight and do not waver,” Ariala whispered, drawing comfort in the familiar words. She stood up and tied her hair back into a bun. “Bend but never break. Together we are stronger than one. We are the last of Elvhenan, and never again will we submit.”

She grabbed her bow and notched an arrow, following the beast’s trail deeper into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)) who's ready for ariala to kick andruil's ass at hunting ME
> 
> ELVISH:  
> asa'ma'lin - sister  
> ma'sal'shiral - love of my life; lit. "you are my soul's journey"


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me just say these quick little things:  
> a) I’M LOSING MY SHIT OVER THE DLC TRAILER  
> b) i’m very glad that i published the chapter with the “you have questions” line before the trailer hella  
> c) i love yall

The forest was anything but silent. Birds chirped, a stream babbled somewhere far off, the wind rustled the leaves. The sunlight was bright now, early morning air warming by the minute. Pale sunlight filtered through the forest canopy and splashed the grass before her in spots of light.

There was no sign of Ghilan’nain’s beast, or of Andruil. Ariala’s footsteps were silent as she prowled through the woods, gaze absorbing every detail of her surroundings. She breathed in the warm air, trying to still her mind and focus on nothing but finding and killing the beast. Despite this, she couldn’t help but feel as though her every step was watched. She crouched lower to make herself a smaller target, gliding through the underbrush rather than stepping, her bow held out in front of her.

It almost felt as though she was back with her clan. As though any minute she could look over and see another hunter, gesturing to her with their sign language when they needed to be silent. _Think_ , she told herself. She had to get back into the mindset of a hunter.

She took another breath and kept walking, turning and following the sound of the stream. The animal could run all it liked, but at some point it would get thirsty. She would wait there and hope that it was the closest stream in the area.

She reached the water, and followed the little brook of water downstream until it widened and deepened into something an animal might drink from. She slid a foot in to test the depth, and when she put her full weight on the river stones the water went just past her ankles. Little black fish darted away from her, but when she didn’t move, they swam closer to her skin, intrigued. Across the river were several wild blueberry bushes.

Ariala scanned the forest bordering either side of the stream and spotted an elm tree, tall enough to keep her out of sight and with branches thick enough to support her weight. She crossed the river and slung her bow over her shoulder, heading to the blueberry bushes first.

When she finished her impulsive breakfast, she hooked her hands and feet into the natural crevices in the elm’s bark and hoisted herself up. By the time she sat down in the lowest branch, she was concealed by the leaves, but she was able to see everything around her.

Ariala shrugged off her bow, notched an arrow, and waited.

The morning was long gone by the time the forest moved in a way that strayed from the usual. Ariala sat up as a flock of sparrows took to the skies, their bodies black against the afternoon sun. Not even a minute later, the beast arrived, its body almost a blur of motion. It skittered to a stop, flanks heaving, legs quivering, and looked over its shoulder, giving her a beautiful view of its eyes, wide and showing the whites in panic.

Ariala lifted her bow so slowly she feared she’d miss her chance. But the beast stayed put at the banks of the water, catching its breath. At last, it turned its head and regarded the water. With a single, pitiful bleat, the creature spread its legs and lowered its head to drink. The movement was so awkward—legs splayed, upper body almost bent to the floor—she almost felt bad for it.

The animal’s tongue lapped at the water, drinking until its flanks stopped heaving and it seemed to catch its breath. Ariala loosened her hold on the arrow’s fletching, but didn’t release it. She had to wait until the moment was right, or it wouldn’t be a clean kill.

At some silent disturbance of the forest, the beast shot up with a terrified bleat. Ariala saw a glimpse of white fur, and silver horns, and then the new creature disappeared again and she turned her attention back to her prey. The muscles in the animal’s hindquarters tensed, as if it was deciding whether or not to run. _Now or never_ , thought Ariala, and released her arrow.

She didn’t see the shimmers of magic holding its hooves in place until after she’d let it go. The beast bleated again as her arrow went through its eye, and then it collapsed. She jumped out of the tree, tucking and rolling to reduce the stress on her ankles, and once she was out of the tree she went to Ghilan’nain’s animal to make sure it was truly dead. She stopped at the edge of the creek, examining the corpse that lay across the water.

Its hindquarters no longer heaved. Her arrow sprouted through its eye, the blood pooling around the wound’s edges to run down its snout. The forest had returned to its regular noise level; she heard nothing but the steady murmur of the creek behind her, and her own breathing.

In the quiet that followed, Ariala heard the whisper of a bow being drawn taut. She reacted before she processed what was happening, pure instinct taking over. “Oh, _fuck_ —” she snarled, throwing herself to the side and landing hard on her hands. A golden arrow embedded into the tree she’d stood in front of a heartbeat ago, colliding with the trunk with so much force the bark splintered, showering the grass in woodchips.

Ariala scrambled to her feet and ran, no longer caring where she went. Andruil’s laughter followed her, sharp and cruel and ringing in her ears. _Weave_ , Ariala thought, jumping to the side, and another arrow sank into the tree she’d stood in front of. She veered into another course, running between trees and swatting at low-hanging brambles that threatened to smack her face.

Her hands stung, but she ignored the pain and kept running.

The beast had been frozen in place since it bent down to drink, which meant either Andruil wanted time to catch up to it or she wanted Ariala to kill it. Fenhedis, but she’d been a fool. She should’ve known better than to think Andruil would keep her promise, even at the expense of Ghilan’nain.

This hunt had never been about Ghilan’nain’s beast. It had only been about her death, and _making the_ _Dread Wolf howl his agony to the skies_ or some bullshit like that.

The longer Ariala thought, the angrier she became. She let the fury propel her forward, let it steer her toward the fallen log on her left. She unslung her bow and grabbed an arrow in preparation. When she drew close enough, she leaped for the log and twisted in midair, aiming her arrow. When her heels landed on the mossy, half-rotted wood, she drew her arm back and let it go, catapaulting off the log when her arrow flew and resuming her run.

She didn’t look behind her, but Andruil’s laugh rang between the trees, so it was safe to say she hadn’t hit the huntress. She was willing to bet that it was also safe to say that Andruil was not used to her prey fighting back.

The trees thinned out, until she was running in almost totally open cover. Ariala turned toward the next swathe of forest, but a raven cawed, catching her eye. She faltered for a moment, long enough to see the large black bird take wing, and before she questioned her decision she was following it.

The raven dipped between the branches, flying through the tall underbrush only to reappear on the opposite side moments later—it was a miracle that Ariala didn’t lose sight of it. At last, just as her pace was beginning to slow and her breathing was coming in harsh, labored breaths, the raven landed on the ground in a puff of silver smoke.

Dirthamen rose from it, and he grabbed Ariala before she could slow to a stop, pulling her into the shadow of a tree and covering her mouth with his hand. Ariala gripped his wrist, eyes wide, but didn’t struggle. Dirthamen was absolutely still, cloaked by the tree, and when he raised his hand and snapped his fingers, little blue fairy lights sprouted from them. They enveloped a small circle around them, and when the lights fizzed out she felt him relax.

Ariala almost made a noise, almost requested him to let go of her, but Dirthamen’s hand tightened before she could say anything. Andruil ran into the clearing, her braid half-undone and her golden eyes wild with—not rage, exactly, but it wasn’t glee, either. Bloodlust.

Her frenzy faded into puzzlement, and she looked around. “She was just…”

An owl hooted, somewhere far off, and several moments later a barn owl flew through the trees to land on Andruil’s shoulder. It tilted its head, cleaning its feathers, but its action made Andruil’s jaw clench. She opened her mouth, as if tasting the air, and her confusion disappeared.

“Dirthamen!” she screamed, a vein pulsing in her forehead. She lifted her face to the sky, her enraged voice echoing in the forest and sending another flock of birds flying. In her fury, she slipped into Elvish, and somehow her threats were even more sinister in the old language. “I know you hide her from me! Your efforts are useless! I will kill her, one way or another. I will have my _vengeance_!”

Ariala didn’t dare breathe, even as her lungs burned. Andruil lowered her head with an irate cry, taking a golden arrow out of her quiver. She stuck it into her leg, pulling it out and bathing the arrowhead in the blood that gushed out. When she was satisfied, she healed her wound and bathed it in a water glyph. When the blood washed away, it was as if nothing had happened.

Andruil shifted her owl to her other shoulder and held up her bloodstained arrow. “Bring this to the Dread Wolf,” she said, unsmiling. “Make sure it is the first thing he sees when he wakes up.”

The owl lifted its head from its wing and hopped down onto the arrow stem, its talons wrapping around it. It cocked its head at her, and Andruil’s jaw clenched. “Yes. I know. But she will be dead by the time he wakes up. If Dirthamen intends to hide her from me, I will at least replace her arrow. Return to me when the task is done.”

The owl hooted once and flew away. The vein in Andruil’s forehead pulsed and she scowled, her scar tugging down to mutilate her face further. Ariala’s lungs felt as though they would pop any moment. When Andruil didn’t move, Ariala released her breath and dragged in a small gasp of air.

Andruil’s eyes flashed. She strode forward, stopping just short of colliding with the duo pressed against the tree. The huntress’s golden eyes bored into hers, but nothing in her expression indicated that she saw anything but the mossy bark of a tree.

Dirthamen didn’t move, but the hand keeping Ariala quiet glowed with magic. She felt it tingle down her face and throat, zipping down into her chest and shoulders, relieving the pressure in her lungs.

At last, the huntress growled and turned away, vanishing into the forest. Dirthamen waited several heartbeats before he released her. Ariala staggered away, gasping for breath. She’d never run so hard in her life. “What—” she began, inhaling hard through her nose and resting her palms on her knees, “—are you doing?”

“Stalling,” said Dirthamen, clasping his hands behind his back. He didn’t look at her. “Catch your breath. Take as much time as you like.”

“She’s going to replace the arrow,” Ariala said again, sitting on the ground. “You need—to stop her—”

“If I leave, so does this enchantment. Ghilan’nain is there. She will prevent Andruil from carrying out her plans.”

“Will she?” Ariala asked, bitterly, and laughed with no small amount of anger. “It seems all you so-called gods want is for the Dread Wolf to suffer. And all of you have decided the best way to do that is to hurt me. Allowing Andruil to change the arrows certainly creates an easy path to take. So I ask again, Dirthamen—what are you doing? Why are you delaying Andruil?”

Dirthamen crouched in front of her, his hood concealing his expression. Ariala reached forward and pushed it back, and as she did so, she caught a glimpse of his raven’s wings. There were no red veins in them anymore. For an instant, she wondered if his fury had transferred to her, instead.

“Because I want the Dread Wolf to be there to witness your death,” confessed Dirthamen, narrowing his eyes but making no move to pull his hood up again. “I want to see the pain in his eyes as the light in yours dies.”

“And what about my pain?” asked Ariala, narrowing her eyes. “Why is everything about the Dread Wolf? I’m not fond of this idea of _hurt me to hurt him_ , myself.”

“You are shemlen,” he dismissed, and even though she’d been expecting that inevitable insult since their first meeting, it still stung. “Your death is all but guaranteed anyway. What does it matter how it happens?”

“You’re an ass,” she bit out. Dirthamen stared at her, his only reaction the slight narrow of his eyes. “Would you be like this if I hadn’t—”

“Invaded my privacy? Traipsed through my memories as if they were yours to see? Witnessed something I have never allowed anyone to see, never wanted _anyone_ to see?”

“Oh, right,” she retorted, her fingers digging into the grass and dirt as her burning anger rose in her throat. “You mean like how you sent Fear and Deceit into my dream to torment me?”

“A different circumstance entirely. What you intruded upon was private—”

Ariala thought of the slaughtered halla, the hunter with a sword through his chest, the Keeper’s horror, and surged to her feet. She hadn’t been there to witness her clan’s destruction, but every so often she could still smell the smoking aravels from her dream. She shoved him hard enough that he took two steps back, and she fisted her hands at her sides to keep herself from lunging for the Lord of Secrets.

“So was mine,” she hissed. “How dare you? My family, my home, everyone I loved was slaughtered. Any clan I went to called me a flat-ear, or a blood traitor, because I decided to get rid of my vallaslin. I closed a massive Breach and saved the world—and got almost _nothing_ to show for it. Tevinter magisters have put a bounty on my head. I was almost assassinated at a wedding, and my ally said I didn’t care about a cause we’ve been working toward for years. Just because my people think you a god doesn’t make your experiences any more meaningful than mine, you hypocritical piece of _shit_.”

Her breath hitched, and she turned away, digging her nails into her palms. She breathed slowly, evenly, until the threat of angry tears had passed. When she turned around again, Dirthamen was staring steadfastly at the nearest tree. He turned back to her, and the expression on his face was not guilt, or shame, or anything close to it.

He looked calculating.

“Hm,” he said.

Ariala resisted the urge to throw her hands into the air, but just barely. “That’s it? Really?” she stated, flatly, and Dirthamen hummed again.

“You have given me a great deal to think about,” he said, but something made her think he wasn’t referring to her outburst. Ariala crossed her arms and Dirthamen turned away. “Farewell, Inquisitor.”

He disappeared into the trees, taking his cloaking enchantment with him. Ariala sighed, her irritation gone, and turned on her heel, venturing back the way she’d come. The afternoon sun was lower now—it was just a little past noon—but somehow the sky seemed darker.

Ariala kept walking, unsure where the next golden arrow would come from, but she kept her head held high. Her heart was still pounding hard in her chest, but at least her breathing had stabilized. Still, she wasn’t sure she could maintain such an outright sprint again.

The forest seemed to twist around her, as if it were trying to lead her steps to a specific place. Ariala didn’t resist the magic, only steeled herself for the inevitable.

Her feet led her back to the stream. She stopped at the bank across from the felled creature. Andruil knelt at its side, her head tilted, but her lips quirked up. “At _last_ ,” she said, her half-smirk widening into a grin.

A lone wolf howled. The sound sent a flock of birds to the skies. The very air seemed to shake with the wolf’s fury. Ariala watched the birds fly away and allowed herself to hope.

Andruil’s smile didn’t falter. “It seems my messenger reached him,” she purred, rising to her feet. “But I wonder if he will arrive in time to save you. Either way, he witnesses your death.” Ariala knew that the goddess wanted her to run. Every instinct screamed for her to run. A thicket of trees was close to her left; if she sprinted, she could make it.

She didn’t move. Her chest felt hollowed out by her terror and her hands shook, but she didn’t run. She had long tired of this chase.

Andruil pulled an arrow from her quiver and notched it, but she didn’t lift her bow. “Why don’t you run?” she asked, tone pleasant, as if she had asked Ariala’s favorite color. Her face was placid, but her golden eyes sparked with something sinister. When Ariala didn’t answer, her brows drew together. “I asked you a question, seth’lin.”

Ariala took a long look at Ghilan’nain’s beast, where her own arrow was buried in the beast’s flank and Andruil’s arrow was in its eye. To any outsider, it would appear as though Andruil had struck the killing blow.

 _Kill the beast before I do, and I leave you in peace. I swear it._ She lifted her chin and met Andruil’s gaze, her meaning in the look clear. “Because I want to look you in the face,” she said, pausing for a heartbeat. “Harellan.”

The wolf bayed again, his howl closer, tinged with desperation. Andruil lifted her bow and aimed, pulling her bowstring taut. “You dare too much, shemlen,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing. Her words shifted to Elvish, and the Well provided. “This ends now. So help me, I will see your blood on my arrow!”

“Then come,” Ariala taunted, baring her teeth.

The force of the arrow as it embedded in her left breast made her stagger backward. Ariala grabbed the shaft on instinct, but instead of trying to pull it out, her fingers curled around the golden stem. In the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of black, but it was too quick to comprehend. Her knees buckled and she pitched forward.

Solas caught her as she collapsed. He faltered under her weight, but in a moment he’d turned her in his arms and knelt on the forest floor. “Vhenan,” he whispered, horror in his slate-blue eyes. Ariala smiled.

“Say it again,” she said, a feverish, murmured plea.

“Vhenan,” he repeated, brushing a kiss to her hairline. “I am here.”

Ariala heard someone laughing. The sound was faint—accompanied by a raven’s caw—but none of that mattered now. She had Solas. She closed her eyes and sighed, her head rolling against his shoulder.

“I can heal you,” he continued. His words were confident, but his voice shook. He pressed his hand against her heart, and the warm tingles of his healing magic began to seep into her skin. “Ariala, sa’lath, please look at me. You must keep your eyes open.”

Anything other than shallow, watery breaths sent stabs of pain shooting through her. Ariala could taste copper in her mouth; but as he commanded, she obeyed, watching him with wide eyes. She wasn’t dead yet—Andruil hadn’t hit her heart. She’d punctured a lung, to draw out her death. Solas pressed his hand against her wound, the pressure more insistent. When she took a breath, she felt nothing.

“S’okay. Doesn’t hurt,” she whispered. Her voice was full of wonder. She’d thought it would—she thought—

 

Ellana folded her legs under her as she sat next to Ariala on the riverbank. “Asa’ma’lin, do you ever wonder how it’d feel to die?”

“No,” Ariala replied, giving her a curious look. She faltered with her willow-crown weaving, but after a heartbeat resumed her work. “Do you want to die, Ellana?”

Ellana shrugged. “No. I’m just curious, is all. The shems go to their Maker, but the Creators are gone. Where do we go?”

“We go somewhere,” Ariala told her. She lifted the willow crown and pinched a tiny blue wildflower between her forefinger and thumb, delicately slipping it between the fine leaves. “I’ll tell you the moment we see each other in the Beyond, after we’ve lived long and full lives and die asleep in our beds.”

Ellana allowed herself to be crowned with willow and wildflowers. She wound a strand of black hair around her finger and stared off into the distance. “Or maybe I’ll tell you.”

Ariala laughed and kissed her cheek. So serious, her sister. “I’m older than you. You don’t get to die before I do, remember?”

 

Something warm fell onto her cheek. She opened her eyes and saw Solas watching the blood pool around his fingers. Tear tracks shone on his face, but his jaw was clenched in determination. She tried to summon the energy to smile and failed. Even now, she could taste her death on her lips. _I must say goodbye. I must._

She covered his hand with her own, not noticing the blood that stained her fingertips. Her eyes were half-lidded, her tongue heavy, but she spoke. “Ma sa’lath. Stop. You can’t heal this.”

“I can,” he replied, brow furrowing. “This was not meant to happen. I will not let you die for my mistakes. I must concentrate—stay awake—vhenan, please, _look at me_ —”

Ariala lifted her bloodied hand and stroked his cheek, wiping away his tears but leaving a scarlet trail in her wake. Solas shut his eyes, a muscle in his jaw spasming. A quiet sob tore through his clenched teeth, and he rolled his shoulder, drawing her closer. The hand on her wound lifted to cradle her jaw. “I will not leave you,” he promised. “If I had been faster…”

“Fen… Fen’Harel,” she gasped. Solas’s shoulders heaved and he lowered his forehead to hers, his eyes squeezing shut. Ariala stroked his cheek again. A raven cawed in the distance. _I must say it_ , she thought, wildly, reaching for words she couldn’t remember. The whispers of the Well stepped forward, supplementing her vocabulary, and suddenly Elvish was streaming from her lips. “I’m so sorry, my heart. I forgive you. I always will. I’m sorry.”

It was hard to breathe. She sucked in a ragged breath anyway, brushing her thumb against his temple until his iron blues opened and stared at her. And then, as she held his gaze, she confessed her most precious secret. “Ar lath ma, Fen’Harel.”

Solas laughed, a tortured sound, full of anguish. “Ar lath ma, Ariala Lavellan,” he replied, dropping his head so their foreheads touched. “Vhenan’ara. Ma’sal’shiral.” He kissed her then, tender and soft, a lingering goodbye. She sighed into his mouth and returned the kiss as best as she was able, unable to deny the feeling that she was finally home in his arms.

A burst of pain bloomed through her shoulder blade, the first instance of pain since Andruil had released her golden arrow. Blood bubbled on Ariala’s lips as she broke the kiss and succumbed to a coughing fit, splattering blood across his tunic. When the fit passed, she whimpered and shut her eyes. “I’m scared,” she admitted, voice small and whisper-soft. “I want to be brave but—” she choked on her blood and spat, inhaling desperately through her nose but unable to get any air.

“I know. I know, vhenan. You’re safe. I am with you.”

Solas stroked her face. Trembling fingers ran over the lengths of her ears, traced her jaw, tucked loose strands of hair away. Her breathing was wet and raspy, and sent shocks of pain through her shoulder and chest. Was this what Andruil had wanted? Hours of agony before her death?

“She’s not a mage,” Solas muttered, but not to her. “I cannot—”

He stiffened, and suddenly, Ariala could hear her surroundings. The ambience roared to life—she could hear Andruil’s gleeful laughter, footsteps rushing through the forest, the wings of a raven as it shuffled on a branch. Ghilan’nain’s quiet, “Andruil, what have you done?”

And then it was over. All she could hear was the dull thud of blood in her ears. It was like when she had drunk of the vir’abelasan—a snapshot of silence, just before the voices descended in a whirlwind. When she opened her eyes, Solas was speaking to her. The water swirled away and she could hear him again.

“—a way,” he was saying. He wrapped an arm around her waist and propped her up further. Ariala’s head rolled and she curled against him, her forehead resting in the crook of his neck. “I can save you, vhenan. You can live.”

Ariala tried for another breath and winced at the fire that bloomed inside her chest. The heavy weight of the arrow was still inside her, killing her from the inside out. Solas touched her throat, and the constricting lump that prevented her breathing cleared. _I can live_ , she thought, _but I want to die_.

Unbidden, her thoughts drifted to her clans. Her sister Ellana, blushing when the hunter she fancied sat next to her at the bonfire. Reading with Dorian, sitting on his lap in his alcove. Her brother Mahanon’s smile when he became First. Bull knocking back a drink and boasting about the dragons they’d killed together. Josephine giggling as she recounted tales of the courts she’d been a part of.

Keeper Deshanna’s shaky handwriting on a half-finished note. _Live well, da’len. You carry Clan Lavellan with you._

 _I want to die_ , she thought, _but I must live_.

Ariala summoned every ounce of her strength. She looked at Solas. “Then cast your spell,” she whispered. For a moment, she was not in a forest somewhere remote; she was in a grove in Crestwood, blanketed with his love before he’d stripped it away.

He flinched at her word choice, but nothing else in his expression betrayed him.

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Solas cupped her jaw and pressed his forehead to hers again. For a moment, she watched him, eyes wide open and gaze searching. The pain in his face cleared away, replaced with hardened determination.

“Live,” he growled, his voice deeper than she’d ever heard it. It was clear command, the first he had ever given her.

Blue smoke began to pour from his eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i could do my homework or i could update this...  
> haha. not even a contest. oh well.

The mist hugged her ankles. Shattered eluvians flanked her; some had cracks in the glass, others had missing shards, but most of them had no glass at all. Ariala could hear a waterfall somewhere in the distance.

Without thinking, she slipped into her wolf form. White paws padded over moss-covered stones, which glowed different colors at every step. Metal shapes twisted to be a mimicry of trees began to filter in, the orbs at the top of the trunks glowing blue. The mist grew thicker, leaving a sweetness that clung to her tongue and nose.

The path led her to a pool of water. Ariala peered over the water’s edge, watching her reflection shimmer in the still water. She could see the bottom of the pond, glowing a soft, deep blue. She leaned over further, until her nose touched the surface.

The blue magic flashed red for a moment, and a shadow rose up behind her. Ariala turned around, her hackles rising, and saw a woman standing in the path before her.

She was thin, painfully so, and naked save for the dragon’s skin she wore like a cloak. Her skin was snowy-white, stretched tight over her body so that her muscles strained and her ribs protruded. The pale dragon’s head rested as her hood, lower jaw removed to make room for her face. Silver ridges rested along her spine. The snout covered her eyes and nose, and the hide covered her back. The wingbones shielded her shoulders—Ariala took a closer look and realized, with a start, that the dragon’s wings _were_ the woman’s shoulders.

Not a woman. A hybrid. A monster.

Her head turned, and the light caught on the four white horns on either side of her head. Each one was bent in an odd direction, but together they formed a macabre crown both majestic and terrifying.

“Ariala Lavellan,” the woman said. “I have wanted to meet you for a long while.”

Her voice echoed in the empty space and trembled in the mist.

Ariala was out of her wolf form and on her knees before she realized it. “Mythal,” she whispered, reverent, keeping her gaze on the ground. “All-Mother. Asha’bellanar.”

“This was meant for the daughter of Flemeth,” she said, her voice still barely more than a murmur. Ariala couldn’t help but wonder if her voice was so weak because Mythal wanted it to be, or because the goddess truly was in a terrible state. “But you will do, I suppose. Look at me, da’len.”

Ariala lifted her head and gazed into the dragon’s unblinking black eyes. The black eyes were the only colorful thing about the woman in front of her. “You saved me?” she whispered. Even with the bitter knowledge that the All-Mother had always been awake, had ignored the elves’ prayers, and likely wasn’t even a goddess—the thought that Mythal would take interest in her was… humbling. Any Dalish would kill to be where she was.

“Fen’Harel loves you,” said Mythal. She did not sound pleased. “Once I asked him if he would kill you, if you interfered with our plans. He said that he would, but nightmares about your death tortured him for weeks afterward. You have ensnared his soul, Ariala Lavellan, I know not how. To lose you would drive him mad. I need him at his best.”

Her stomach flip-flopped at the confession, but she refused to acknowledge her reaction. “Good to know,” she said, cracking a bitter smile. _Do you always protect yourself with humor?_

Mythal’s silver lips thinned. Ariala amended her tone. “What did you do, my lady?”

“I saved your life,” replied the goddess.

“How?” she asked.

“Wake up,” said Mythal.

 

Ariala opened her eyes with a gasp.

The smoke washed over her like a flood, streaming into her eyes and ears and nose. It enveloped her body, seeping into her skin and making her fingers tingle as if she’d been dunked into the waters of the Emprise du Lion. It kissed her scalp and caressed her temples, snaking into her ears. It crept over her mouth with all the softness of a lover’s touch, puckering her skin and bleeding into the spaces between teeth and tongue. It danced over her heart in waves, changing shades of blue as it gathered over her and moved down her body.

Sharp pinpricks of pain burst inside her stomach—her chest—her head—the smoke surged down her throat, and Ariala choked. It tasted heady and overly sweet, leaving a saccharine aftertaste on her tongue. She breathed in, and the smoke hovering over her was sucked into her body. The cold changed in bursts of fire, burning her from the inside out, but she could not scream. She couldn’t do anything.

And then it was over. A heartbeat passed, and the smoke was gone completely. The buzzing in her ears faded away and her senses returned. Solas— _Fen’Harel,_ she thought, and the name no longer left a sour aftertaste in her mouth—still held her in his arms. She was still bleeding. Andruil’s arrow was still lodged in her breast, dangerously close to her heart. But somehow, she felt… fuller. More complete.

What had Solas done to her?

“What have you done?” Andruil screamed. Ariala turned her head, the movement agonizingly slow, to see the huntress throw down her bow and run toward them. Fen’Harel stiffened, but Andruil did nothing more than fall to her knees and press her hands to Ariala’s chest.

“What have you done?” she repeated, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook, and even as she sobbed she bared her teeth at Ariala. “Live, seth’lin. Damn you, _live!_ ”

“It is not her you should blame, Andruil,” Fen’Harel snarled, with a tightly-controlled fury she had never heard from him before. “Only your own arrogance and folly.” Even as he spoke, his healing magic was sweeping over her, cracking open her pain and drawing it out like bones and marrow. Ariala clenched her jaw so hard she feared her teeth would break.

“He will kill her,” Andruil gasped, squeezing her eyes shut. A vein pulsed in her forehead. She shuddered and lifted one bloody palm, leaving a scarlet handprint across her eye. “He will kill her.”

“It will be no less than you deserve,” Fen’Harel spat at her, his upper lip curling. Ghilan’nain had been silent, but at that she sent a hard look toward Fen’Harel and knelt beside Andruil, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. At her love’s touch, Andruil’s shaking subsided, and she drew in a ragged, heavy breath.

And then she wrapped her hand around the arrow shaft and ripped it out. Ariala screamed, her back arching, and black swam in her vision. Suddenly there were hands on her chest and magic pouring through her veins and blood gushing between her breasts and—

She was yanked from her body. There was no other way to describe it.

Still able to see through her own eyes, but unable to control her body, Ariala watched as her hand lifted and turned toward Fen’Harel. “Fen’Harel,” she ordered, in a tone of voice foreign to her. It was a tone of authority, double-layered and commanding the utmost power. “Hurry, else she will not survive. There is too much blood already.”

Fen’Harel gazed at her, and something shifted in his expression. The panic subsided, replaced by the cool confidence she remembered. Without hesitation, he placed his palm over hers—

—and the dormant Anchor came to life.

Green-blue lightning, so vibrant it was almost cerulean, cracked where their hands met and raced down her arm. Ariala’s back arched, her lower back bowing to the point of pain, and for a moment she feared her spine would snap in half. She could feel cold air around her Anchored hand, stretched tight over her skin like a form-fitting glove.

And then the moment passed and she sagged against Fen’Harel, a thin sheen of sweat beading along her forehead. A combination of magics converged over her wound, a blend of spring-green and silver and russet and emerald, lacing together to form a web over the blood. She could feel their efforts, pulsing through her veins, keeping the blood inside her. A sensation neither warm nor cold filled her body, leaving prickles across her sweaty skin.

Ariala’s world dipped, even though she hadn’t moved, and she knew without looking down that her blood was still trickling between her breasts, staining her ribs and running across her belly.

A line of sweat beaded across Fen’Harel’s brow. “It’s not working,” he said, even as his magic seeped into her body and twisted it from the inside out. Panic began to creep back into his expression. “She’s—”

“Trust me, Fen,” replied Mythal. Ariala wanted to add her own words, wanted try to comfort him in her own way, but her tongue was thick and heavy in her mouth and her body would not obey her. Fen’Harel clenched his jaw and continued.

Mythal raised Ariala’s Anchored palm and placed it over her heart. The electricity surged into her chest, causing it to skip a beat and leaving a searing burn behind in her palm. It felt as though her skin was on fire, and the pain of it made Mythal’s eyes roll into the back of her head.

Ariala surged forward in an attempt to regain control of her body—she could feel the chill of her fingertips, and then she was being pushed back, once more nothing but an outside observer. A scream clawed its way up her body’s throat, releasing through clenched teeth, and the fire continued to burn through the veins in her hand.

The pain was so great she could hardly hear her surroundings, focusing on nothing but the agony trapped under her skin. Dimly, she could hear Fen’Harel chanting her name, pleading with her. Someone else said, “It’s not enough—we need a healer—”

“Perhaps I can help with that,” said a voice, so unfamiliar it cut through the haze of pain. Mythal turned Ariala’s head, and they saw a tawny-skinned woman striding toward them. She wore a hunting outfit: a deep red tunic that stopped mid-thigh and stirruped black leathers, but a staff was strapped to her back instead of a bow. A leather bag rested at her hip, bulging with whatever was inside of it.

“Ashalen,” Mythal greeted, attempting a smile. Another pulse of pain burst in her lungs and she gasped, her smile distorting into a grimace.

“Hush,” said Sylaise. Andruil moved aside and Sylaise took her place, kneeling beside Ariala. “I am here now, mamae. Sleep.”

She reached up and tapped Ariala’s forehead with two fingers. Ariala resisted the pull—she wanted to die in her own body, to feel the pain without being a bystander—but the silence, cold and sweet and empty, dragged her under.

* * *

The blue light was so bright it woke her up. Ariala’s eyes fluttered open, and the first thing she saw in the darkness was her Anchored hand, wrapped in thick gauze. Her heart caught hard in her throat, and she lifted her Anchored hand to examine it more closely, her other thumb pressing against the meat of her palm.

She peeled the glowing bandages away and dropped them onto the bedspread, flinching at the brilliant light that seemed to illuminate her and half the bedspread. When the orb had been destroyed, the Anchor had faded in power, and at some point most of its light had been trapped under a perpetual scab. Ariala had still been able to use it, but rarely, only about once a month or twice if she was lucky. Now, it seemed as the Anchor was her own personal torch.

Before, the Anchor had been a pale, but vibrant, emerald green. Now, it was teal—but whatever hints of green that existed were drowned out by the sheer amount of _blue_ that polluted the color. Ariala flexed her hand, starting at the flash of blue that shone under her skin at the moment. The light disappeared when she relaxed, but it didn’t stop the unease from filling her.

Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just the fact that the Anchor had risen from the dead. She just… couldn’t put her finger on it.

Ariala lifted her palm, squinting at the surroundings, now illuminated by the ghostly blue light from the Anchor. She was in a different room—the balcony was directly across from her bed, rather than at its side, and the pillars were carved to resemble trees where their tops met the walls. White curtains edged the balcony entrance, their bottoms shifting every so often from the faint breeze.

Ariala stretched out her other hand, feeling the cold silk under her fingers, and she realized what was wrong.

Solas— _Fen’Harel_ —was not with her. She didn’t think for a second he would have left her side willingly, not when she’d been in such a dire state. 

Ariala shot up, gasping at the shocks of pain that cramped in her chest and swaying at the lightheadedness that overwhelmed her. Her right hand went to her sternum, where her heart was beating hummingbird-fast. Her head swam and her world dipped, only righting itself when she lay back down on the bed. When her head hit the pillow, she didn’t have the strength to try again.

So instead of attempting to stand, she thought. It was likely he was just somewhere recovering his mana, and hadn’t been with her because… she couldn’t even think of a plausible reason. She knew that, in all likelihood, he was probably fine.

Still, she couldn’t help but imagine Fen’Harel thinking her dead and attacking Andruil in retribution. She couldn’t help but wonder if Andruil had carved gashes into his body like her arrow had gouged a hole in her chest, wonder if the huntress had killed him and created a rug from his wolf pelt.

No. Thinking about his death stole the breath from her lungs. Ariala focused on sitting up again, slowly, and the only punishment for her efforts was a slight ache in her chest. The larger moon was large and pale in the sky, and she could just see a glimpse of Satina peeking out of its brother’s light.

Ariala stood on shaking legs and reached out for the wall to steady herself. She crossed the room the long way, using the walls to balance herself instead of walking across the expanse of space. She needed to see Fen’Harel, needed to see if he was all right. If it turned out that he was sleeping in his own room, then that was fine. She would gladly look a fool to see him safe.

She stepped out onto the balcony, trying to imagine where her former room would’ve been. But she had never been in this part of the temple, at least not at night. Still, she was determined. Ariala lifted her Anchored hand and allowed its light to guide her as she navigated the eerily quiet temple of Sylaise.

She passed a room where Ghilan’nain’s silver hair caught in the light. Andruil was sleeping beside her, the sheets tangled around their naked bodies. No wolf pelt for a rug. Ariala quickly turned her hand toward her chest to dim the light and hurried on. She passed another room, occupied by an unfamiliar woman, and a third with an empty bed.

So Dirthamen was up; hopefully he wouldn’t seek her out. Ariala wasn’t sure if she was even capable of talking to him without glaring at him anymore. Before she turned away and continued, an object caught her eye. She stepped forward, raising her hand again, and stiffened.

An orb rested on a bedside table. Ariala was on the empty bed before she knew it, reaching across and pulling the object into her hands.

Where Fen’Harel’s orb had been neat grooves, the carvings in this were irregular parallel lines. Some of them shifted in the middle, others rose up on one side to curve down on the other, and two flames were embossed at the top and the bottom. When Ariala ran the Anchor over its surface, the cold stone warmed at her touch, glowing blood-red. It did nothing else.

There was some vague detail from sometime in the past—the nameless woman standing before her, a bulging pack at her hip—Solas telling her that the orbs were used by the gods to store their power—and Dirthamen, telling her that the other gods had had their own tasks.

One such task must’ve been to collect the remaining orbs. One for each deity.

A chill swept over her. If they had been collecting the foci… the power they had, even diminished, had turned them into gods in the eyes of her people. She couldn’t begin to imagine what would happen if they had the access to the stores of energy contained in the artifacts.

A man cleared his throat behind her. Ariala started, dropping the foci, and felt searing heat lick across her nerves. Her mouth tasted like ashes and her nose smelt nothing but scorched earth. The impression was different from Andruil’s starlight—this was more like…

Sunlight. The type of sunlight that burned.

Ariala swallowed and slowly turned around.

“So,” said Elgar’nan, his golden eyes glittering amber in the moonlight. “You are the Dread Wolf’s heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mythal's character description is 100% inspired by [this](http://www.deviantart.com/art/Mythal-548597065). just imagine the red is white. for plot reasons.
> 
> ELVISH:  
> Asha'bellanar - woman of many years; Dalish name for Flemeth (who Ariala knows is also Mythal)  
> Ashalen - daughter


	19. Chapter 19

Ariala wanted to give the All-Father a clever retort, but she was speechless. She picked the orb up, but Elgar’nan lifted his hand and it wrenched itself out of her grasp. It floated in the air, humming with red energy, and flew into his palm.

“You have nothing to say?” Elgar’nan asked, still watching her.

“Well, actually, I’m _You’re The Dread Wolf’s Heart, You Must Die So The Dread Wolf Can Howl His Pain To The Stars_. You forgot the surname. It’s the most important part,” said Ariala, unsure why she was being a smartass _now_ of all times. “I realize it’s quite a mouthful, but my parents had high hopes for me.”

Elgar’nan’s upper lip curled in distaste. It rather looked like he was staring at a mangy stray. “Do you think yourself humorous?”

“I’m sorry to say I do,” Ariala said, tilting her head, struggling to keep her expression neutral. “If it’s any comfort, no one else thinks so. You’re definitely not alone.”

“Do you know who I am?” Elgar’nan looked startled, as though the thought had not occurred to him. But the surprise soon hardened back into disgust, his expression looking as though he’d sucked on several lemons.

“Is this the part where I get smited? Smote? Blasted into oblivion?”

“No. I’d advise you don’t tempt me.”

His face didn’t change, so she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Deciding her fool mouth had done enough damage, Ariala tapped her fingers against her thigh and stayed quiet. She’d been changed into a thin shift, but she hadn’t been very aware of her fresh clothes until now. “So… I’m guessing this isn’t Dirthamen’s room.”

Elgar’nan’s eyebrow quirked. “Astute. Did you ensnare the Dread Wolf with such a quick mind?”

Oh, he was even more condescending than Solas. Ariala narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of the Dread Wolf, where is he?”

“How should I know?” Elgar’nan didn’t react, didn’t even blink an eye. His neutral expression was far more suspicious than any other face he could’ve made. Ariala bit the inside of her cheek, her halfhearted attempts at justifying Fen’Harel’s disappearance sinking heavy in her gut. “I am far more interested in you. You have been asleep for five days, recovering from the hunt. Did you know that? Do you remember anything?”

“No.” All she remembered of the hunt was Fen’Harel saying he could save her, and blue smoke. As she recalled that disastrous afternoon, something else came to her, on the tip of her tongue, but it retreated just out of reach when she chased after it. She refocused on the man in front of her. “Well. I remember getting shot. But that’s about it. When did you arrive?”

“Sylaise and I were returning from our journey. We had just entered the temple through its eluvian when I sensed… hm. Sylaise found you nearly dead on the forest floor, with Andruil, Ghilan’nain and Dirthamen working tirelessly to save you. They took you back to the temple, and healed you.”

Ariala blinked. “But—”

“But?” Elgar’nan prompted, in an innocuous voice that told her to be very, very careful.

“It was just those three?”

“Indeed.”

“I see. Thank you, my lord.”

She got off the bed and tried to make her grand escape, but Elgar’nan caught her arm. “You need not fear me, da’len,” he said, and though she was sure he was attempting to comfort her, he merely looked aloof, as if he was staring into space instead of at her. He released her arm and Ariala stepped away, staring at the ground. “I have heard some… Dalish tales of me. They say that I am a god, prone to uncontrollable rages and an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. Is that true?”

“Yes, that’s one version. Don’t tell me the Dalish got that wrong, as well,” said Ariala, a hint of exasperation in her voice. Really, the amount that the Dalish had misinterpreted or simply invented over the centuries was beginning to bother her.

He smiled, with a cruel tilt to his lips that made gooseflesh prickle across her arms. “No. Strange; I expected the legends to twist what existed and to invent what didn’t. But these Dalish tales of yours are absolutely correct.”

 _Absolutely correct._ The words sent a chill through her. Ariala offered a weak smile and left, thankful that Elgar’nan didn’t try to stop her again. When she had turned the corner which hid her from him, she fled as fast as she could without running.

She was halfway through retracing her steps back to her unfamiliar room when her stomach growled. It was a wonder she hadn’t starved during her five-day coma, but they must have fed her something to keep her alive. Broth, maybe. Or tea.

Still, the thought of Andruil and Dirthamen taking care of her unconscious form was not a pleasant one. Ariala pushed them from her mind and turned on her heel, locating the nearest staircase and going to the garden. Once she found the crystal gazebo, she continued on to the kitchen.

The kitchen was eerie in its silent stillness—it was too late even for the crickets and the fireflies. As Ariala regarded the room with her reborn Anchor, she briefly felt as though she were exploring a ruined temple with Mahanon again, just waiting for the Keeper to stumble upon them.

And then she turned to the bowl of apples on the counter and ate three of them in quick succession. She bit down on a fourth one and snapped off a twig of mint from the plant growing in the baskets that framed the door. When she finished her fourth apple, she chewed the mint leaves and headed back to her room.  

She returned to the room she’d originally had by instinct, but she stilled once she reached the balcony and could see the interior of her bedchamber. She stared openly, her lips parting on a confused breath as she took in the scene.

Her former bedroom was _destroyed_. The dresser, already splintered, was a pile of jagged wooden beams. The headboard on the bed, beautifully carved to resemble vines wreathing Sylaise’s fire, was crushed in the middle, as if someone had been slammed into it. Ariala turned her hand, shining light upon a new section of the floor, and saw dark spots on the soot-covered floor. She approached the spots and knelt in front of the fireplace, touching the dry substance.

She brought her fingers up and rubbed a few strands of silky black hair between the pads of her thumb and forefinger. The fur smelled like blood and Solas’s magic.

 _Fen_ , she thought, her heart leaping in her throat. She stood up and strode out of the room, panic making her heartbeat begin to pick up. She couldn’t remember anything about the hunt after Fen’s effort to save her; worse, Elgar’nan had refused to answer her questions about him, had lied to her face, and was probably the reason behind his disappearance.

He could be hurt, or dead. No, she thought, shaking her head free of that terrifying thought as she ran down another flight of stairs. She began her hunt at the courtyard. She would search every room for signs of him, if she had to.

She had to find him, before the others killed him.

* * *

“I am the rightful king of Ferelden!” roared Gaspard, slamming his fist on the table. “I could have you drawn and quartered for this treason!”

“Skyhold is neutral ground, Your Majesty,” Josephine reminded him in a placating tone. “Our troops will protect the Fereldens from any harm you wish upon them, as they will do for you if the Fereldens try anything, in turn.”

Dorian watched from his place around the war table, fascinated to see Josephine at work in person. Officially, he was a representative of the College of Enchanters, as they were based in Ferelden, but of the six people present, he had been by far the least talkative. Politics had never been his strong suite. It reminded him too much of home and often left him pessimistic about the world’s future. He did try rather hard to be an optimist—Ariala’s influence, he was certain. The woman had stared Corypheus in the eye and cracked a joke. A quite horrid joke, but a joke nonetheless.

Gaspard turned his masked face to the ambassador, nothing but his eyes betraying his anger. “And who gave the Inquisition the authority to declare this? The Breach has been gone for two years. When will the Inquisition give up its mantle of restoring the peace? We all know it has done no such thing.”

“Is preventing a second war between Ferelden and Orlais not peacekeeping, Gaspard?” Leliana asked. “Let me remind you that it was the Inquisition that bestowed your crown. If they do not have the authority to hold peace talks, then you should not be Emperor.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Fergus Cousland, turning back to Gaspard, his arms crossed over his chest. “Ferelden _only_ agreed to this marriage if Anora was its regent. Anora was assassinated—at _your_ reception, in _your_ capital. We will take no king but Alistair Theirin.”

“A Grey Warden?” Gaspard sneered, and Fergus arched an eyebrow. “I can’t expect any different. You doglords would crown a mabari if you could, I am certain. And what do you plan to do about his elf heathen whor—”

“You will not finish that sentence, Gaspard,” said Leliana, her tone so chilling it sent shivers up Dorian’s spine. He turned to the Divine to see her hands clasped behind her back, her face shadowed and murderous. “The Hero of Ferelden spared all Thedas the horrors of a Blight. Respect her as she deserves.”

Dorian smirked as Gaspard stayed silent. The Emperor visibly changed tactics and turned to Teagan, whose frown had become more and more pronounced as time passed. “You were there, Teagan,” griped Gaspard. “I had no idea of Briala’s plots. You know I have no love for the Game.”

“Perhaps if you were better at it, you could have prevented Anora’s death, and all the problems that followed,” Dorian said, smiling without any real warmth.

“Or perhaps if the Inquisitor had deigned to share Briala’s plans, we could have stopped it,” snapped Gaspard. Josephine’s eyes widened, and she lowered her writing board.

“I—beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but did you just accuse the Inquisitor of being in league with Briala?”

“I believe he did, Josie,” said Dorian, glaring at the Orlesian. “I call your bluff, ser. As a personal friend, I think I know Inquisitor Lavellan better than a pompous Orlesian ass who danced with her for one night. Your claims are outrageous. Baseless. Almost idiotic! Where’s your proof?”

“Why else would she be gone for so long?” asked Gaspard, his eyes narrowing behind his mask. “She was seen in the heart of Val Royeaux, the night of the elves’ disappearance. She slaughtered a contingent of city guards and melted into the night without a trace. And in the weeks since, every alienage or town with a substantial elf population has disappeared.”

“Ah, I see. So the mass exodus of your marginalized citizens _clearly_ means that the Inquisitor poisoned Anora’s veal. Do forgive me for not seeing it earlier,” Dorian drawled, rolling his eyes. Josephine sent him a pleading look.

“The Inquisitor has been pushing for a land for the elves for _years_ ,” Gaspard continued, ignoring Dorian’s addendum. “Who’s to say she hasn’t tired of diplomacy and plans to take these lands by force? Who’s to say she hasn’t defected from the Inquisition in pursuit of her larger goal?”

“I say that that is all trite _absurdity_ —” began Dorian, but Teagan cleared his throat, cutting him off.

“The point of this gathering is to discuss Ferelden and Orlais, not whatever plans the Inquisitor has for the elves,” he reminded the gathered group. Josephine nodded, relief crossing her face.

“Indeed, ser. Would Ferelden be placated if, perhaps, Gaspard took a Ferelden bride?” Josephine suggested. “Perhaps Lady Cousland, if she is a candidate for Alistair?”

“Elissa will never marry this brute,” Fergus said, flashing Gaspard a look of contempt. “She’d sooner slit his throat than sleep with him.”

“And I am glad of it,” said Gaspard, raising his chin. “I am already married, happily so, and nothing could make me cast my wife aside for a doglord’s infant sister.”

Fergus clenched his fist, his hand drifting toward the sword at his hip, and everyone tensed. Teagan rested his hand on the man’s shoulder, and Fergus looked away, mumbling a curse under his breath.

When his companion was calm, Teagan lowered his hand from Fergus’s shoulder, pure rage in his eyes. His hands twitched—Dorian was certain that if it weren’t for the table between the two men, he’d have witnessed a spectacular fistfight. “Married?” he repeated, incredulous. “Before Anora’s corpse has even cooled? You depraved—”

“We may be depraved,” snipped Gaspard, “but at least we have never sold our own citizens into slavery. We have never invaded a supposed ally’s home and slaughtered his family in the middle of the night. That accomplishment is all Ferelden’s, no?”

Fergus lunged across the table, and this time Teagan did not stop him.

Dorian did.

He stepped forward and placed a hand on the warrior’s chest, shoving him back with all the strength in his arm—and with a little help from force magic. “Did I return to Tevinter while I wasn’t looking?” he asked, stopping Fergus from making another attempt to throttle the Emperor. “And you southerners all say you’re more civilized than the evil magisters up north.”

Leliana looked like she had just fitted a puzzle box’s piece into the correct slot after hours of puzzling over it. “I was not aware you married Lady Monette,” she said, turning shrewd eyes upon Gaspard. “My congratulations to the both of you.”

He inclined his head in subtle thanks. “She is young, and already has a far better chance of giving me an heir than Anora did.”

“Any children they have would be Orlesian,” Teagan insisted, narrowing his eyes. “Can’t you see? No lord in Ferelden would accept them. Until we hear from Alistair in Weisshaupt, I will remain regent as the Landsmeet dictates. We will not be under Orlesian rule again. It is simple as that.”

“You haven’t heard a reply from Alistair yet?” Leliana asked, sounding truly puzzled. Teagan shook his head.

Josephine turned pleading eyes on Gaspard. “Surely there is another path to consider? Perhaps Orlais could ask a boon of Ferelden…”

“I was crowned and anointed by Most Holy herself,” said Gaspard, shaking his head. “I will not step down.”

Leliana nodded at Teagan, but she looked far more calculating than she had previously. “I did crown Gaspard as King of Ferelden, and Anora as Empress of Orlais. But what followed was… an extenuating circumstance. Would you consider allowing Alistair Theirin to become king, Gaspard? As a personal favor to the Divine?”

“He would have to reach Ferelden, first,” said Gaspard, and it sounded like a threat.

Josephine sighed, resting her dry quill on her parchment and massaging the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps… we should take a break?” When the three men grudgingly gave their assent, she sighed again, much more relieved. “Very well. In two hours, we shall resume these talks. I will see you then, gentlemen.”

Gaspard and the Fereldens wasted no time leaving the war room, but Dorian and Josephine lingered. Josephine rested her writing board on the table and sank into one of the chairs, rubbing her forehead. “Are you feeling all right, Josie?” Leliana asked, sending her friend a concerned glance.

“I would appreciate some water,” the ambassador replied, gesturing to the end table that held refreshments for the participants. A servant had just refilled the empty water pitcher; when Dorian handed her a glass, she gave him a thankful smile and sipped it. “I simply have a headache, Leliana. These foolish men… it will pass. Thank you.”

As Josephine drank, Leliana rested her hands on the war table and pointed to Lydes. “Monette’s tailor did report that she had to make adjustments to her dresses, as they were too tight to fit,” she said, addressing neither of them. “Monette is intensely religious, and besotted with Gaspard. She would panic if she found herself unmarried and with child, even if the child was the Emperor’s bastard.”

Josephine lowered her glass of water, her lips pursed in thought. “But Monette would be in the Chantry if not for the Inquisition,” she said, slowly. “She wouldn’t attack us, not when she owes everything to the Inquisitor.”

“And that theory leaves out the saar-qamek,” Dorian pointed out. “Qunari like to make a point of not cooperating with bas, never mind assassins.”

“Indeed.” Leliana lowered her voice. “Zevran is investigating the Antivan Crow cells he does not control—there is a woman in Denerim who has connections across elven Thedas. Her cousin is the leader of Denerim’s alienage. If he can find any leads on either the assassination or the elves’ disappearance, we will soon know.”

“And Ari?” asked Dorian, unable to stop his frown. “What about her disappearance?”

“My agents are to report to Sera immediately if they spot her, as well as attempt to take her to Skyhold. Cullen’s soldiers and the Chargers have combed the woods around Val Chevin and Val Royeaux all week. Red Jennies are also on the lookout. We have eyes and ears across the continent. We are trying to find her, Dorian, I promise.”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” he frowned, looking out one of the windows. “I should be out there, looking for her. I even searched the Fade, terrible at it as I am.”

“For now, Dorian, we can only pray for her safety until she is found,” said Josephine. “If she was armed in Val Royeaux, then I am certain she can handle herself. You are not the only one worrying about her.”

“Of course not,” said Dorian, having the grace to drop his eyes. “Yes. She’s Dalish. I’ve seen her fight. She’s probably in a cave somewhere, wearing a bear pelt to keep warm while making her way to Skyhold. And when I _tell_ her I was worried about her, she’ll laugh at me and—no, perhaps I shouldn’t tell her that. Nevermind.”

Leliana smiled. “We miss her, too, Dorian. Would accompanying me to Val Royeaux take your mind off of things?”

* * *

The slave grabbed his hand, but when he recoiled, she did not attempt to touch him again. Instead, she gestured for him to follow her, and she led him down into the cellar.

“Only the slaves go down here,” she assured him. “You’ll be safe here.”

“My thanks,” he told her, and she smiled, gratitude shining in her eyes.

“We whispered about you,” she told him, confessing it like a secret. “In the kitchens as we made dinner. At night, after the master’s fallen asleep. We all know what you did. And now you’re here.”

“Bring the others. Let them know I am here.”

She nodded, bounding up the stairs with a wide smile. He waited in darkness, tapping his fingers against his knee and counting the seconds. Several long moments after the slave disappeared, the doors opened and near-silent footsteps drifted down the stairs.

“Thought you might like some light,” said a familiar voice, and he looked up as a redheaded elf lit a candle. She placed it on a crate next to a sack of potatoes, leaning against the doorframe with a satisfied smile. “Hello again. It’s been a while.”

He glowered at her. “ _You._ What are you doing here?”

“I’m just the messenger,” said Tallis, shrugging a shoulder. She flashed him a self-satisfied smile, the sight of which made him narrow his eyes at her. “The Ambassador has decided to invite you to the Minrathous Museum of History. Tomorrow. Midnight. Don’t be late to the party.”

“You are a fool, if you think I will walk into a trap,” he asked, standing up, fingers itching for his greatsword. Meeting this Ambassador—though what he or she could be the ambassador of, he did not know—did not sound like a good idea.

Tallis’s green eyes glittered. “You think I’d lead you into a trap? After all we’ve been through? I’m _hurt_. Really, I am. Have you considered how this will help _them_?” She jerked her head toward the ceiling. He didn’t need to ask who she meant. Even now, he could hear footsteps creaking on the floorboards above. “They can escape without a trace. Better than fighting your way out of Tevinter, isn’t it? Tomorrow, midnight, Minrathous museum of history. Don’t be late!”

Before he could respond, she was gone, the candle extinguished and no trace of her left behind. The slaves replaced her not soon after, not one of them giving any indication that they’d seen the Ben-Hassrath operative. Their leader, a lean elven man with several scars on his arms, pushed through the crowd and identified himself as Cook. When he had introduced himself in turn, Cook regarded him with wary brown eyes. “You’ll help us, then?” the slave asked.

“I will do more than help you,” he replied.

 

At eleven-fifty the next day, he snuck out of the mansion with the same ease he’d snuck inside. He stuck to the shadows, his cloak thick enough to mute any effects that would draw attention to himself. The path from the magister’s mansion to the Minrathous Museum of History was rather straightforward, though he came upon his first obstacle in the form of a tall, wrought-iron fence.

He made sure to go to a section where there were no windows through which any curious onlookers might watch him scale the fence; when his feet landed on the grass, he scanned the locked windows, too high to reach normally. He had walked around almost the entire building before he saw the open pane of glass, just slightly ajar.

When he finally managed to climb through the window and land silently, he tensed, preparing for a guard. Surely the mages had wards to prevent thieves. If he hadn’t tripped them, the open window had.

He found the guard when he turned a corner, his throat slit. Droplets of blood led down the hall, and when he turned the corner he saw a faint, electric blue glow emanating from one of the archways.

He followed it and turned, stopping at the sight.                                                                 

A woman was standing in front of a glowing blue eluvian. He was too shocked to reach for his weapon, to even think to defend himself. “Merrill?” he asked, his surprise leeching through in that single word. The next moment, he silently cursed himself for giving himself away—the woman’s frame was shorter than Merrill’s, and less slender.

The elf turned around, the blue backlight giving her black silhouette enough light to reveal that she was not, in fact, Merrill. Deep brown hair curled around her shoulders, and freckles darkened her already brown skin. She wore a simple white peasant’s blouse and rolled-up breeches, soft doeskin boots covering her feet up to her calves. An amulet resting against her heart, elven in design, caught the light from the eluvian.

“Fenris,” she greeted him. “My name is Briala. I have a proposition for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUNLAT:  
> bas - non-Qunari / people who don't follow the Qun; lit. "thing"


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYYY let's have a chapter and form a prayer circle for this new dlc because i was fine with it but now i'm screaming inside so new chapter to celebrate (or mourn, as it may be)
> 
> also. i was working ahead. and.... the rating may/will probably change. not soon, no, but sometime in the future. mama forgive me. those scenes will be 100% plot free if they're not your jam. ilyall; your comments/kudos/bookmarks keep me running and inspired, so thank you. :)

Solas was not in their tent when Blackwall relieved her from watch. She found him sitting on a hill, watching over the Dirth, his staff discarded at his side. She could see the pits of undead still smoldering far away, and the Dalish’s low-burning campfires.

Her footsteps were silent in the grass, but he still turned to her. He greeted her with a nod, his supposed calmness belying any underlying emotion. But Ariala could still see the tense muscles in his back, could still see the rigid, controlled way he held himself.

His words at one of the ramparts still rang in her ears. The arcane horror controlling the undead had been aiming a blast of magic at Solas—she’d shot an arrow at it, and it responded in kind by blasting her with the magic meant for Solas. She’d heard him scream the instant before the force magic shoved her into the trenches.

Later, he’d dropped his staff and knelt at her side. His hands had trembled as he’d tried to give her the healing potion, so much so that Vivienne had noticed and tutted, taking it from him and doing the task herself.  After they alerted the soldiers of their success, they’d returned to camp, and he hadn’t looked at her since.

“Talk to me,” she said, settling beside him. When he didn’t say anything, she rested a palm across his shoulderblade. He tensed even further, but didn’t tell her to stop, so she started rubbing circles into his skin. His back was a mess of knots—one day she’d have to take care of that. “Solas. Ma vhenan.”

He had wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into her lap before she even had a chance to register what happened. But once she did, she curled a hand around the side of his neck, resting her head on his shoulder. Solas buried his face in her unbound hair, inhaling deeply. “I thought I had lost you,” he said, his admission a soft murmur. “You are the first… you…”

Ariala placed her thumb above the pulse in his neck, blinking when she felt his blood thrumming, erratic and fast, underneath his skin. “Solas,” she soothed, lifting her head and forcing him to look at her. “Solas. Ma sa’lath. Listen to me. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t go down without a fight. I will _always_ come back to you, ma sa’lath.”

 

“Why are you up?”

Ariala shrieked, almost jumping out of her skin as she whirled and she saw Dirthamen, standing in front of a mosaic he hadn’t been in front of a moment ago. In fact, she had been alone when she’d walked past the mosaic ten seconds ago. “Do you _sleep?_ ” she hissed, pressing a hand over her racing heart as she regarded him. Dirthamen had tied his hair back in braids, and for the first time, she was able to see his ears.

It was a strange thing. With the moonlight shining upon his head, his blue eyes bright in the silver light and his face fully exposed to her, she was suddenly struck by déjà vu. _Come, before the band stops playing—dance with me!_

It was the ears, she decided. They were shaped exactly like Fen’Harel’s. Now that she noticed that similarity, she couldn’t stop herself from seeing others. The tilt of his eyes, the curve of his jaw… she had thought Dirthamen calling Fen _brother_ had been a mockery, but it seemed it held more truth than she’d thought.

She wanted to kick herself, for not seeing it earlier.

“What is it?” asked Dirthamen, his forehead creasing in confusion.

“So when you called the Dread Wolf _brother_ , I thought it was, like, some weird ancient elvhen pseudo-god bonding thing,” she said, not missing how his expression darkened. “But you meant it literally.”

“I did.”

“Huh.” She tapped her chin. “You have his ears.”

“I have my father’s ears,” he corrected, as readily as if he’d said the same response to the same comment half a hundred times. Ariala’s eyebrows raised and he frowned at her again. “Why are you awake?”

She waved her blue Anchor at him. “This thing is like a torch. I can’t sleep with it like this,” she said. It was only half a lie. “Also, I’ve only eaten four apples in five days. Are you hungry? I’m starved. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Good night! Try not to invade my dreams again, okay? It’s rude. Ma serannas.”

She walked past him, ignoring the open suspicion on Dirthamen’s face, and headed for the kitchen again. The moment she was able to turn a corner and hide herself from view, she counted to sixty, then mouthed the lyrics to the longest song she knew, just to be safe. When she was sure a few minutes had passed, she looked around the corner.

Dirthamen was gone.

“That didn’t actually work, did it?” she asked, to no one in particular. She could see the empty hall and still wasn’t sure that her excuse had convinced him. Even so, she finished her trip to the kitchens and ate another apple, just for good measure. It wouldn’t do to sneak around and try not to get caught, only for her stomach to grumble and give her away.

When her late-night snacking was finished, she returned to the mosaic that Dirthamen had appeared in front of. There was nothing special about it: it depicted Sylaise holding a bowl of healing fire, her head wreathed by healing herbs and hart horns, and supplicants kneeling below her, their hands raised in prayer and worship.

Ariala’s hand sparked. There was no pain, but she caught a glimpse of blue magic flashing through a vein when she turned her hand up. When she looked back at the mosaic and raised her palm, some of the tiles glowed silver in the magical light of the Anchor.

Huh. Interesting.

She felt a strange sort of giddiness, like whenever she found a weak wall Bull could pummel or she opened a picked door to see what lay behind. She poked each glowing tile, shivering when ripples of magic flowed out from them, as if her fingers were stones disturbing the surface of a pond. She tried out several combos, but eventually, she found the right one, and all the rippling circles joined to create a multilayered spiral.

When the puzzle was unlocked, the mosaic seemed to cave into itself from the center, forming a doorway that led into a pitch-black tunnel. Ariala stepped forward, her giddiness turning into nervousness that jumped at the base of her throat. When her feet were on the other side of the wall, the mosaics clicked back into place in silence.

“So that’s how he did it,” she whispered, her words echoing slightly. She raised her Anchored hand, her own personal torch against the darkness, and began to descend. What secrets did Dirthamen hold down here?

The stairs seemed to go on forever. Water dripped from the walls and crystals caught the light, shining for a brief moment before being reduced to little dots of glitter embedded in the stone. Cold air brushed her bare legs. She shivered, and kept going, the Anchor lighting her way.

At last, when she reached the bottom step, her throat tickled and she coughed.

And she heard someone breathe. Not near her, no, but a little gasp that was loud enough to be heard. And then:

“Is someone there?”

Ariala’s breath caught hard in her lungs as she heard Fen’Harel’s voice. “Vhenan!” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the—dungeon? prison? underground hideaway?—she wasn’t sure. _Darkness_ would suit her just fine. “Where are you?”

“Ariala?” She couldn’t tell what emotion thickened his voice. Relief? Fear? “You’re… my love, you should not be here—” his words cut off with a pained cry, and urgency spurred her to follow the sound of his voice.

“What did they do to you?” she demanded, swinging her hand to and fro, but all she saw was emptiness. The tunnel widened into a chamber, with only little dividers of stone jutting out to indicate any separation in the massive space. “Keep talking. I’ll find you.”

“I can see—do you have veilfire?”

“No. That’s the Anchor.” As she spoke, her hand began to prickle with pins-and-needles, as if it was aware she was talking about it.

“ _What_?”

“I know.” Ariala turned a corner, a glow of scarlet drawing her eye. She turned the Anchor toward it and gasped, her other hand covering her mouth. Fen’Harel knelt in one of the cells before her, on his hands and knees in nothing but a thin pair of trousers. That was not what shocked her.

Glowing red ropes were wound all across his body, sweeping across his torso, his arms, his legs, in a waving vertical pattern she faintly recognized—and then her eyes widened. The bindings looked like Elgar’nan’s vallaslin.

“No!” she cried, stepping forward, and at the same time he shouted, “No, stop—!”

She walked between the two jutting walls, and an invisible barrier pushed her back with an explosion of electrical energy. She slammed into the opposite wall of stone, her head cracking against it, and she collapsed on the floor, her muscles involuntarily twitching with electrical energy.

Sounds swam in her ears, not quite unintelligible but not very clear, either. At last, Ariala blinked and sat up, her side burning. She had a strong suspicion that if she lifted up her nightdress and took a look she’d see another lightning tree arcing along her stomach.

Still, she didn’t feel any pain. In fact, the Anchor seemed brighter.

Fen’Harel had heaved himself up to sit on his haunches, his jaw clenched tight as the ropes sizzled against his skin. Ariala could smell the sharp tang of roasting flesh and her stomach heaved. She swallowed down the impulse and got to her knees, drawing as close as she dared.

“What is that?” she asked, looking down at his bindings. Crimson glyphs circled around him, leaving only a sliver of space between his calves and the red. When she pressed the Anchor against her, muffling its light, he glowed in the dark.

Fen smiled, bitter and hard, and hissed as the ropes drew tighter at the movement. His muscles tensed, involuntarily, and the ropes constricted further. When he stilled and the ropes stopped in return, he dragged in a careful breath through his nose. “ _This_ is Elgar’nan’s Wrath. It was a punishment he and his favored used upon their more… rebellious slaves.”

The sight of it sickened her. “How do I break it?” she asked, unable to hide the horror in her voice. “Ma vhenan, how can I help? Have they given you anything to eat or drink? How long have you been down here?”

His smile turned gentler, the anger in his eyes softening. “Ma vhenan. Even in this, you care for others first. I am fine, sa’lath. I have worried for you more, alone in that nest of vipers.”

“Dammit, answer my questions!” she shouted, fear and worry coloring her words. Even as she spoke, she could see the bindings around him constricting, searing into his skin. And he was hardly making a sound. How could he stand it? “How can I break those things?”

“You cannot,” he replied, hissing as the ropes binding his wrists together tightened. Steam curled from the bonds, visible in the darkness and smelling like woodsmoke. “Elgar’nan must remove them himself, or you must overcharge them with magic. If the latter happens, whatever magic the ropes absorb goes straight to Elgar’nan.”

Well, she couldn’t overcharge it. She wasn’t a mage. And if what he was saying applied to all magic, then that meant that Elgar’nan was stealing Fen’s magic, as well. “Dammit,” she whispered again, her nails digging into her palm.

Fen choked back a gasp of pain. “Vhenan,” he said very softly, and she knew exactly what he was going to say. “You must leave me—”

“No. I let you go once.” Her voice broke. “Don’t ask me to do it again.”

She’d wanted to sound fearless and brave, determined, like the Inquisitor she was supposed to be. Instead, her voice shook, and her words had sounded like a plea. If she could only find a way to find something that would go through barriers—

Andruil. Andruil’s arrows in Dirthamen’s memory. Andruil had attacked Fen with her arrows and they had gone through his barrier.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, breathlessly. “I have an idea.”

“Ariala—”

She had turned and fled back up the stairs, retracing her steps and checking every room until she found Andruil and Ghilan’nain. They had shifted in their sleep, their hands twined around each other, but neither of them moved when Ariala crept to the foot of the bed. She lifted her Anchored hand, and the golden arrows across the room caught the light.

Several times she stopped when the women shifted in their bed, certain Andruil would open her eyes and see her standing there. Fisting her hand and muffling the glowing Anchor a bit, Ariala carefully shrugged on Andruil’s quiver. When that was strapped to her back, she swallowed and reached for the shortbow beside it.

Her heart pounded high in her chest, just under her sternum, so loudly she was certain someone could hear it. She even held her breath as she pulled the shortbow over her head to rest across her back. When she had successfully stolen Andruil’s weapons, she returned to the ground floor of the temple as soon as she could.

It was only when she had reached the mosaic again that she allowed herself to inhale, hard, and take a break. Her heart beat too fast to be healthy, and her lightheadedness made concentrating difficult. It was as if she’d just stopped a hard run, rather than walked up a flight of stairs and then down.

 _Breathe, Ariala,_ she thought, running a hand through her hair. _Breathe!_

When she did manage to suck in a breath that filled her lungs, the moon was beginning its descent onto the horizon. She didn’t have much time left before dawn came and the temple’s inhabitants began to rouse. Fen needed her.

It no longer seemed strange to call the man she’d known as Solas _Fen’Harel_. Fen’Harel seemed to suit him better, though she’d known him as Solas for five years. Why was she thinking like that all of a sudden?

She ignored that thought, opened the hidden passageway, and ran downstairs, turning the corner. “I’m—”

She stopped dead and unslung her bow, notching an arrow. Fen’Harel was still in his prison, but he was no longer awake. He had collapsed forward, the red ropes burning into his flesh. Now that he was unconscious, the harsh glare of his bindings’ magic seemed dimmed.

Dirthamen stood in front of him. The Lord of Secrets half-turned from his place and clasped his hands behind his back. She almost expected him to rock back on his heels like Fen did. He looked unconcerned with the golden arrow pointed at his exposed throat. “Death has you hooked on its claws, and you _still_ manage to defy all expectations of the inevitable. And here you are again, flirting with it. Do you have _any_ sense of self-preservation?”

She was about to question him further, ask him what he meant, but then she saw the cold, dispassionate glance Dirthamen shot at Fen’Harel.

Instead, she narrowed her eyes and said, “He’s your brother. He’s your family, even though you might want to deny it. How can you stand there and not _care_?”

“A strange word, ‘care,’” Dirthamen mused, his gaze cool and apathetic as it settled on her. “That’s the difference between you and me, Inquisitor. You care far too much. You place others above yourself. It is a mistake. Inevitably, they’ll use that trust against you. Even the Dread Wolf.”

It was just like Ghilan’nain. She was sick of these elves trying to get her faith in Fen’Harel to waver. So instead of rising to the bait, she gritted her teeth and waited for him to attack her. He didn’t. He simply stood there, with a flinty sort of impatience and determination on his face she had never seen before. At last, she lowered her bow, though she didn’t make any move to get rid of the arrow. “What happened to finding me in the kitchen?”

“Astonishing,” he said, shaking his head. Ariala changed tactics.

“Why haven’t you attacked me yet?”

“Why would I do that?” he asked, looking genuinely puzzled. She had never seen so many emotions from him in such a short span of time. “I am here because there is something you should know, before you attempt this. Two things, truly. If I do not aid you—”

Her eyebrows shot up, mouth dropping open into a small o of surprise. “You’re going to help me?” she asked, failing to contain her visible shock. She and Dirthamen had been on less than friendly terms—she wracked her brain for reasons for this turnabout, but couldn’t come up with any plausible theories. Still, she wasn’t about to push her luck. “You’re going to help me save him?”

Dirthamen’s lips quirked up in a smile, small and sincere. “Yes, da’lath’in. I am going to help you save this besotted fool.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seven more days ‘til I can play trespasser. I have, by some miracle, managed to resist looking at spoilers... though the fic summaries have me very, very nervous.
> 
> I'm whittling away the seven days by writing more fic for you guys. enjoy the update. fluff is very soon. :)

Ariala put her arrow back in her quiver and slung her bow back over her shoulder. “First of all, there’s this barrier—”

“Already dispelled.” Dirthamen reached forward, his hands between the two walls that indicated the cell. No electrical surge pushed him back. “The only real matter of concern is the bindings around him and the glyphs.”

Ariala faltered, sending him an odd look. If he had been able to dispel the barrier so quickly… _you trust too easily,_ he’d said to her. Something settled in her gut, some strange unease she couldn’t place, but she did her best to ignore it. “What do the glyphs do?”

“If they are broken, they alert Elgar’nan. Nothing else.” He stepped closer and crouched, his fingers skirting the border between stone and glyph. “I may be able to dispel it, given enough time. But we must hurry. He is already too weak.”

“Do it, then.” He knelt and she dug her nails into her palms, pacing behind him. She could see Fen’s clammy skin, and he was already too pale. She didn’t see any blood, but the persistent smell of smoke and charred flesh made her ill.

At last, one of the glyphs flashed silver and dispersed. Ariala pulled an arrow from her quiver and pushed past the Lord of Secrets, kneeling in front of Fen. She placed a hand on his forehead, frowning at the fever she felt under his skin. A rope was wrapped around his shoulder, emanating so much heat a thin line of sweat broke out on her hairline.

She held her arrow up and braced herself. She grabbed the red rope and released it almost immediately, gasping as she turned her hand up and revealed raw, pink flesh where her skin had been. The burn was a thick line across the knuckles in her upper palm, and it stung as though she’d stuck her hand into one of Sera’s jars of bees.

She tried it again, with her other hand, choking down a scream as she lifted one of the glowing ropes and sawed at it with the arrow. The thread snapped two seconds later, but it felt like an eternity. Ariala released the rope and flexed her hand, silent tears streaming down her face.

Dirthamen crouched in front of her and drew her palms between his. A brush of his index finger had ice blooming across her red, raw skin, soothing the burn and making her skin prickle, which was infinitely more preferable than the sting reverberating across her hands. “I don’t understand you,” he said, his brows drawing together. “I—that was… clever, yes, but _exceedingly_ stupid. What were you _thinking?_ ”

“I didn’t have any better ideas,” she replied. She sniffed and curved her shoulders, doing her best to ignore the acute discomfort in her hands. Her eyes slipped shut despite herself, and she bit down on her lip to stifle her pained cry. Dirthamen sent another wave of ice magic, but it didn’t help.

Fen. She had to focus on Fen, first. He was in more danger than she was. She forced her eyes open, relief sweeping through her when she saw that the red was ebbing away, revealing normal rope underneath the enchantment. She tried to pull it away, but her hands were too raw. Dirthamen did it instead, and every inch of rope peeled away revealed deep black cauterized gouges in Fen’s skin, in the shape of Elgar’nan’s holy symbol.

Bloodless vallaslin.

It would be a miracle if he lived, another thing entirely if the scars healed properly. Disgust and anger warred in the pit of her gut, mixing together to form a toxic weight that spread to her chest and made her jaw clench. She leaned forward, placing a fingertip on Fen’s throat, feeling for his pulse. It was faint, erratic, but it existed.

“It will be a miracle if those aren’t permanent,” Dirthamen mused. “I witnessed countless slaves be subjected to this. Most of them screamed within the first hour, the stronger ones within the first day. But then again, this was meant only to weaken him. Which brings me to what I must tell you.”

Weaken? He knew what Elgar’nan had done?

“Did you—did you watch while they did this to him?” She couldn’t help the disgust in her voice. She couldn’t imagine what their relationship to be like, for Dirthamen to watch his own brother get tortured and feel _nothing_.

“I did.” Dirthamen turned his eyes upon her again. When he saw her expression, he smiled, bitterly. “What should I have done, Inquisitor? Should I have attempted to stop them? Should I have fought one against four, and died a needless death? No. I would much rather live.”

Ariala should have been angry with him. All she felt was pity. Both of which, she thought, would be poorly received. Instead of answering, she scooted closer to Fen. She lifted him up as well as she could without touching the burns on his body. She rested his head in her lap, wishing that she was a mage and could wash healing magic over him. Fen’s hand was limp in her own marked one, but she refused to let the signs discourage her.

She had already lost everything: her clan, her family at Skyhold, her wide-eyed naïveté about the elven gods. If she lost Fen—the only person who made sense in this broken world—nothing would save Elgar’nan from her justice.

“What must you tell me?” she asked, and something within her made her attempt to send some of her power into Fen. It was strange, pushing the power out of her Anchor rather than gathering it in, but she accomplished it, and when the blue magic seeped into his skin, he sighed. It was encouraging enough.

“The others took your memory of the hunt’s aftermath. The Dread Wolf gave you his shard of Mythal, connecting it to yours. Now you carry Mythal’s soul, or whatever is left of it. Your status guaranteed both your safety and his suffering.”

Ariala pursed her lips. Some part of her knew she should be surprised, but she wasn’t. The news felt as if she was finishing a puzzle to see the whole picture. Still, she closed her eyes and turned her thoughts inward. _Mythal? Hello?_

She expected actual words to answer her, but what she got was a sort of sleepy mumble. A sigh. A flash of fatigue that she felt in her own body. It was like a child who didn’t want to get out of bed. And it created a piercing headache, one that made her close her eyes and massage her forehead.

“So what you’re saying is we either get out or Fen dies,” she said at last, as her headache throbbed and her left hand prickled with pins and needles. She sent another wash of the Anchor’s power into Fen’Harel, relaxing slightly when he shifted in her arms. A third wave, and the Anchor’s brightness dimmed a little.

Fen’s eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was her. Surprise filled the pain in his eyes, and she managed a strained smile, massaging more magic into his body. He caught her Anchored wrist resting on his collarbone and turned it toward him, kissing her palm. “You stayed,” he said, wonder in his voice.

Ariala grinned, allowing herself to relax a bit. “Did you doubt it?”

“You _stayed_ ,” he said again, in a far different tone than the one before. His expression shifted to panic, and he struggled to sit up. She helped him, and his gaze settled on Dirthamen. Fen’Harel gasped in pain, but he still managed to maneuver in front of her, his hand settled protectively in front of her.

“He’s here to help,” she said.

Fen shook his head, his nose scrunching. “I shall believe _that_ when I see it with my own eyes, and when I am convinced he has no ulterior motive.”

“You wound me, brother,” said Dirthamen, clutching a hand over his chest. He was smiling, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “I am doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”

Ariala wasn’t sure how to react. Fen was so tense under her fingertips he was quivering. She massaged little circles into his skin and refocused on Dirthamen. “So… what? Did the purity of my heart change your mind? The unbreakable bond of brotherly love? What do you gain from this?”

He nodded, solemnly. “Quite. The Inquisitor’s purity of heart changed my mind. As did the unbreakable bond of brotherly love. I gain nothing but the warmth of knowing that I did the right thing.”

The sarcasm was so thick it dragged across her skin, but Ariala couldn’t even force a half-hearted laugh. Some deep sound rumbled from the depths of Fen’Harel’s chest, but his brother only raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Control yourself. I thought your wolf days were past.”

“Wolf days?” Ariala repeated, not quite sure she’d heard correctly. Still, some part of her was amused, as if the Lord of Secrets was recounting an age-old tale she’d heard a thousand times before. Fen didn’t meet her questioning gaze, and the tips of his ears were pink. _Interesting._

Dirthamen looked a little smug. “After the Dread Wolf learned how to shift into a wolf, he decided to remain a wolf. For four centuries. Even after he returned to his elven skin, the mannerisms stuck with him. I thought he’d broken the old habits at last, but it seems not.” He turned to Fen. “Did you ever growl at her?”

“Never,” Fen retorted, the tips of his ears flushed red, his eyes stormy gray.

“You growled at people?” Ariala asked. Repeating her thought aloud startled a laugh out of her. “Do I get to say _down, boy_ now?”

Fen shot her a look, half-exasperated and half-pleading. She grinned at him and turned to Dirthamen. “What else—?”

Fen cleared his throat. “This is not the time for such stories.”

Dirthamen tutted. “What should we do instead? You were in those chains for _five days_. I’m surprised you’re still breathing. I’ll be astonished if you can walk. Do you have any mana left?”

“None,” said Fen. She squeezed his hand, and he turned his exhausted, pained gaze to her. “It will take me several days to recover even a spark of mana. I… I cannot assist you, vhenan. At best I will be a hindrance. At worst, I will—”

“I’m not leaving you,” she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. He dropped his gaze, and she tilted his chin up, forcing him to look at her. “Do you understand me, Fen’Harel? We’re in this together.” Her tone gentled. “We’ve always been in this together.”

Dirthamen cleared his throat. Ariala looked away from Fen but didn’t release his hand. “Elgar’nan mentioned an eluvian,” she said. “Where is it?”

Dirthamen shook his head. “Clever, but it won’t work. We have discovered that June’s eluvians now require a password, and we do not yet know what it is. The one Elgar’nan and Sylaise used was already open from the outside. One can come into the temple but one cannot leave it.”

 _Remember this, when the time comes_ , Briala had said to her. Ariala knew the words by heart. She smiled at Dirthamen and said, “That won’t be a problem.”

“Confident.” Dirthamen told them the eluvian’s location, and Ariala looked back at Fen. He was grimacing, silent tears of pain trickling down his face, but when he saw her looking he steeled his expression into one of neutrality.

“I wish I could help,” she whispered to him. He had to be in such pain, and he was only allowing her to see a fraction of it. She rested her hand on an unburnt part of his shoulder and sent another pulse of the Anchor’s power into him. Fen placed his hand over hers.

“You have done more than you know,” he said. His smile shifted into a grimace, and his hand flew to one of the burns snaking around his ribs. “We should not linger here,” he continued, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth.

Ariala nodded and moved into a crouch, lifting Fen’s arm over her shoulders and ignoring his pained groan. She wrapped her other arm around his waist, careful to avoid the burns branded into his skin, and together they got to their feet. Dirthamen stood as well, opening his hand and allowing orange fire to bloom in his palm. He turned and led them back to the entrance.

The sky was just turning pink when they emerged from the hidden dungeon. Dirthamen extinguished his flame. “To the eluvian,” Ariala said. She adjusted Fen’s arm around her shoulders and nodded to Dirthamen to indicate that she was ready.

Dirthamen stilled, closing his eyes as his fingertips glowed. When the silver mist gathering around his hands dissipated, he frowned. “What is it?” Fen asked, but Dirthamen merely shook his head. “Dirthamen,” Fen snapped.

“We must hurry,” Dirthamen said. He turned and joined Fen’s other side, hooking his brother’s arm across his own shoulders. Together, they crossed the gardens, into a hallway concealed by another mosaic. Instead of leading into a deep, dark dungeon, however, it merely led into a… sunroom, of sorts. Arches vaulted to the ceiling, their frames empty of any glass. The dawn’s light illuminated each mosaic that was paired with an arch in golden-pink light.

Across the room was an eluvian, its thick black frame twisted into swans and bunches of holly berries, tangled together by elfroot vines. The dawn caught the glass, scattering a multitude of bright colors across the stone floor.

Elgar’nan stood in the middle of the room. It looked as if he had been waiting there for quite a while. He turned, appraising the situation with quick, cold eyes. His gaze settled on Fen’Harel leaning heavily on Ariala’s shoulder, and his lips quirked into a smile.

Ariala stilled, her breath catching hard in her lungs. How did he know? How did he know they’d try to use the eluvian? She turned to Dirthamen, but he was staring at Elgar’nan and either didn’t notice or avoided her eyes. Her heart sank and she turned back to the All-Father, bracing herself for whatever fire and brimstone he rained upon them.

Nothing happened.

In the silence, which could only have lasted a few seconds, Fen’Harel somehow managed to straighten, pulling away from Ariala and Dirthamen both. He opened his mouth, his eyes cold, but Elgar’nan shook his head. “Sleep,” he said, and flicked his fingers toward them.

Ariala blinked, a brief period of drowsiness weighing down her limbs. Dirthamen didn’t even move. But Fen’Harel’s eyes fluttered shut and he swayed, collapsing with little more than a sigh.

A jolt of energy shot through her, driving away the tiredness in a heartbeat. Ariala stepped forward and caught Fen before he hit the floor, but his dead weight made her stagger. She knelt and wrapped his left arm across her shoulder, placing her right hand on his waist to steady him.

“Now for you,” said Elgar’nan, narrowing his eyes as he turned to Dirthamen. “A boon of Mythal. Is that what you seek? I could give it to you, instead, if you step aside. My quarrel is with the Wolf.”

“Indeed, you could,” said Dirthamen, tilting his head. He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the All-Father, looking more contemplative than anything else. “But I doubt you will grant me what I want. And I have no guarantee that you won’t turn on me once Mythal is with you.”

Panic speared Ariala. Elgar’nan wanted Mythal? If _she_ didn’t have Mythal, she was good as dead to the ancients. She didn’t particularly want Mythal’s soul habiting her own body, but it was a necessary evil. At this point, it was the only reason she had lived through Andruil’s hunt.

Ariala tried to stand up, but her legs wouldn’t move. While the two men were discussing, she felt that same strange sensation, that same thread of awareness in the back of her head. The same sense of _other_.

 _Let me take control_ , a woman urged, and her voice was so clear in Ariala’s head it was as if she’d stood right next to her. With her words came an instant headache. _Let me take control, and it will not happen._

Ariala glanced to the side, reflexively, and shook her head. _Mythal, I presume? Thanks but no thanks._

“I know where the rest of the shards are,” said Dirthamen, narrowing his eyes. “If you turn on me, I will escape and destroy them all.”

Elgar’nan’s eyes smoldered. “We have an agreement, then?”

“Dirthamen,” Ariala said, her voice wavering. _You trust too easily_ , he had said, and he was right. Handing them over to Elgar’nan, he might as well have held a knife to her throat instead. Or maybe this was all a set-up and she’d ignored Fen’s warnings and walked right into the death trap.

Dirthamen turned to her, his eyes blank and his expression betraying nothing. Ariala swallowed, and this time her voice didn’t break. She didn’t move, even as ice burst across her feet and locked her into place. She tightened her grip on Fen’Harel. “Please. Don’t let him do this.”

He tilted his head again, like she was an interesting specimen that had momentarily caught his interest. Elgar’nan strode forward and crouched before Ariala, his fingertips catching her chin. “How do I free her from you?” he asked, more to himself than to her, his eyes still partially narrowed. Sunlight turned her vision red as a pulse of magic washed over her, receding and pulling in its retreat like a tide—and agony followed in its wake.

White-hot pain burst inside her veins, filling every empty crevice in her body. Ariala jerked away from Elgar’nan and screamed, her eyes screwing shut as the magic pulled on something invisible inside her. The worst part was that she could feel it succeeding, hooking its claws somewhere inside her soul and dragging it out—another wave followed, and her vision almost blacked out.

 _Enough of this,_ Mythal snarled.

Ariala managed to think _no, please, don’t_ —and then she felt it, the tugging sensation in the back of her mind, trying to pull her away from her body. She choked back a scream and released Fen, falling sideways, clutching her head. _No!_ she screamed at Mythal, as the insistent tug turned more potent. She couldn’t give in. She couldn’t. _I won’t be your puppet!_

_You have no choice._

A white gash split down the back of her right hand, and another opened across her left forearm. It didn’t hurt, but Ariala’s eyes widened at the sight, horrified by the bright light spilling from inside her body. The pull grew stronger, and with a final yank, Ariala was severed from her body, condemned only to see and hear but nothing else.

Dirthamen began to move closer to the duo, his expression still neutral. Mythal lifted her head and turned it toward Elgar’nan, who smiled and touched her cheek. “Vhenan,” he said, seemingly unconcerned with the violent transformation that had just occurred. “I have missed you.”

Mythal stared at the ice binding her legs to the floor, and Elgar’nan melted them. The moment she was free, he helped her up, his hands lingering in hers. Mythal smiled at him, a tad wistfully, and brushed her fingertips against Elgar’nan’s brow. “Forgive me, ma lath,” she said.

Elgar’nan’s brows furrowed, and Mythal looked to Dirthamen, who nodded at her, a fireball growing between his cupped hands. Elgar’nan noticed her look and turned away, at the same time Dirthamen opened his hands and released the barrage of fire. Mythal rolled out of the way, ignoring Elgar’nan’s furious shout and his barrier.

She reached Fen’s unconscious body and turned, watching the fight as she pulled her companion’s arm over her shoulders. Elgar’nan had returned Dirthamen’s attack with a bolt of white-blue lightning. Dirthamen’s barrier shattered at its onslaught, and he was not quick enough to avoid the second one. Elgar’nan turned on his heel almost the moment after Dirthamen staggered back, his features blurring as he Fade-stepped.

 _No,_ Mythal thought, faltering. Before she could react, Elgar’nan was in front of her, his hand wrapped around her throat. “Betrayal,” he snarled, his hands crushing against her throat. “Death has changed you, Mythal. I wonder now if you are worth saving.”

Mythal gasped, her lightheadedness making it hard to think and her lungs beginning to ache. She was confined to Ariala’s body, but Ariala was not. She knew a way out. She focused herself, focused on connecting back to her body. And for a moment, it worked—she could feel the pressure on her neck, the stickiness of Fen’s skin on her own, the heat of the sun on her back.

And then Mythal shoved her out, and a white furrow split open across her abdomen, visible through her nightdress. _Are you trying to get us killed?_ the All-Mother asked. She released Fen and pried at Elgar’nan’s uncompromising grip, gasping for air. “Shards—” Mythal gasped, a plea in her voice, willing him to understand. She saw Dirthamen rise to his feet, but said nothing. “Ma’lath, the—memories—”

Understanding dawned in Elgar’nan’s eyes, and his iron grip around her throat loosened. At the same time, Dirthamen closed the distance between himself and the All-Father, wrapping his arm around Elgar’nan’s throat and wrenching back. It was enough for Elgar’nan to release her and re-focus on Dirthamen. He broke free with a furious yell, fisting his hands and pushing Dirthamen away with a blast of raw energy that left Ariala’s ears ringing. “I have had enough of you,” he growled, turning around and striding toward Dirthamen.

 _Open a rift!_ Ariala shouted to Mythal, unsure if the woman was even listening to her anymore. Mythal ignored her and dragged Fen back to his feet, locking his arms in front of her bruising neck. Dirthamen and Elgar’nan’s fight was flashes of magic, glimpses of wings and fire and rage, too fast for Ariala’s eyes to comprehend. She turned to the eluvian and closed the distance by a few more steps.

Elgar’nan clenched his fist, and Dirthamen’s body was slammed into the wall behind him, as if an invisible fist had shoved him. As Mythal drew closer to the eluvian, Elgar’nan shouted _no!_ and hurled a fireball toward them. Ariala knew it without looking behind her, because every sense in her body was screaming for her to turn around.

Mythal twisted, Anchored hand raised and the other holding Fen up, and summoned the Aegis. Black flashed at her feet, and a blue-green barrier sprung up, strong enough to repel the fire attack. Dirthamen stood up, clutching his ribs, and met Mythal’s gaze. She nodded, and he shifted into a raven, flying through the empty arches and disappearing into the forest.

The Aegis shot Elgar’nan with a bolt of lightning, sending him flying back. Mythal turned the moment after the lightning struck, facing the eluvian. The Aegis buzzed around her, its strength already waning, but it was loud enough to cover her next two words.

_Remember this, when the time comes._

“Fen’Harel enansalin,” Mythal whispered, and the eluvian activated in a swirl of bright electric blue. Elgar’nan screamed as she stepped through, and the eluvian closed behind her. Mythal staggered into the Crossroads, Fen’s unconscious body leaning against her, but she steeled herself. Ariala watched the colors light up beneath her feet as Mythal took them both to a place only she knew.

The eluvian she reached was tall, with a half-tarnished golden frame. Unlike its brethren, there was no sign of damage on its surface—there were no cracks, and its glass wasn’t darkened. “Good,” Mythal said, sighing.

 _What is this place?_ Ariala asked her, but Mythal did not answer. She merely lifted her hand to the mirror’s surface and smiled when the eluvian responded to her touch. When it was glowing blue, she tightened her hold on Fen’Harel and went through it without any hesitation.

They went from the silver mists of the Crossroads to a green place saturated by golden sunlight. Mythal collapsed on her knees, catching Fen before his head hit the stone floor, and lowered him to the ground. Without looking around her, she stood up and unslung Andruil’s bow.

When the eluvian’s glow faded and it was once again a mirror, Mythal strode forward, lifting the bow over her head and smashing it into the mirror. The eluvian shattered with a faint tinkling noise, like rainfall on glass.

Mythal dropped the bow and turned, managing a smile at the sight of a dozen elves in front of her. One in particular was a welcome sight; his green vallaslin and golden eyes brought a comfort she hadn’t felt in a long while. She released her hold on Ariala’s body with a tired sigh. 

The white gashes splitting her skin vanished, and Ariala blinked back into herself. Glass shards cut into her bare feet, turning her skin slippery and wet, and her throat ached with a dull pain. Her hands hurt so badly her eyes watered. Worse, she had no clue where she was, or how Fen was faring.

Ariala swallowed back a gasp of pain. “Ma halani,” she managed to say, and collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel enansalin - Fen'Harel's blessing; Briala's passcode for the eluvians  
> Ma halani - help me


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HEY HEY. an update just in time for solas fluff friday! (it's still friday somewhere, right? right.) 
> 
> i don't have my computer back, alas, so my files are still ~somewhere. BUT this glorious, glorious [fanart](http://bloodwrit.tumblr.com/post/131793783945/so-this-lavellan-is-actually-really-important-to) of ariala 100% inspired me to write a brand new chapter from SCRATCH. 
> 
> And your wonderful feedback, of course, because that stuff is my lifeblood. <3

For an instant, there was chaos.

Ariala fell to her knees and caught herself on her burnt hands. When her palms pressed against the beads of glass from the eluvian, pain crackled underneath her skin. She could not stop her gasp as she rolled onto her back and tried to brush the glass off of her hands without aggravating her injury further.

She heard the elves debating among themselves behind her. None of them seemed particularly keen on helping her or Fen—instead, her identity seemed to be the biggest priority of the group. As if they could discern her name just by gaping at her.

Well. They could just ask her, but no.

Far be it from the ancient elves to debase themselves with a shemlen.

Pushing that bitter thought aside, Ariala propped herself up on her elbows and look at the elves. “Help him!” she half-shouted at them, indicating the unconscious Fen with a jerk of her chin. Her frustration gave way to icy fear, and her voice nearly broke. “Please. Please, don’t let him die.”

A cold, authoritative voice broke through the musing crowd. “Why are you stalling? Do you not see the marks of torture on his skin? They clearly have no intention to attack. If you are not a healer, return to your homes. _Now_. We will deal with these trespassers when they are well.” A hooded elf wearing golden sentinel armor pushed past the crowd, with two elves at his side. The group of elves scattered, leaving a handful behind. All but one of them went to Fen.

The armored elf knelt next to Ariala and pushed back his hood. His flaxen hair was braided back and shaved at the sides, and two earrings dangled from his right ear. The sunlight made the green branches on his forehead more vibrant, and his golden eyes seemed molten.

“We meet again, Inquisitor,” he said to her, in Common.

“Abelas,” Ariala breathed. An inexplicable smile crossed her face, even as she wanted to grimace from the pain in her hands and feet. It was so refreshing to see a friendly face again. Friendlier than the men and women she had been dealing with for the past few weeks, anyway. Her smile fell as she bit back a grimace. “Are we safe here?”

Abelas’s expression was inscrutable. “If you are as I remember, then you have nothing to fear from us.”

“Ma serannas,” she whispered, licking her chapped lips.

Abelas turned her onto her back, then slid gloved hands under her back and knees. He picked her up easily. She didn’t struggle; her feet were bleeding and stuffed with glass, and it was more pragmatic to be carried. But it didn’t stop her from sending an anxious glance Fen’s way. “Wait—what about him?”

“You both will be taken to the arla’ladarelan. They will treat you both there.”

Ariala allowed herself to relax. When he carried her out of the room, she distracted herself from the pain and worry by turning her head and trying to absorb her surroundings.

In a way, it reminded her of two things: Dirthamen’s home, and the Temple of Mythal. Above her were domes made of crystal, silverite and ironbark, all woven together to scatter the sunlight and create beautiful montages of blending colors. Tree canopies grew both inside and outside of the roof, blocking the harshest rays while doing nothing to make the room any less bright. She could see a few brightly colored birds nestled in the branches that grew within the building.

“What is this place?” she asked. Abelas strode through a wide archway, wide enough to fit five men across and tall enough that even Bull would not have to duck. She sat up a little in his arms to better see, biting back a gasp of pain when her chest throbbed in protest.

Still, the sight was worth it. Abelas did not pause for her benefit, but she was able to see everything.

Mythal had taken her and Fen to a jungle. [Buildings](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CQbOUMMUYAAl6qb.jpg:large) had been constructed around the massive tree trunks. Some of them had bridges between them, and others had spiraling levels connected by curving walkways. Abelas walked on a path of pale stone, interwoven with thin beams of silverite, fashioned to represent Mythal’s branches. A railing wrapped around the pathway, with simulacra of tree branches curving into each other resting on top of the siding every few paces. Somewhere, Ariala could hear the distant roar of a waterfall.

It was similar to the treehouses in the Frostback Basin, but connected by roads, and more beautiful. Her lips parted on a breath, and she blinked several times, not sure if this place was real.

“Where am I?”

“The Tirashan,” Abelas informed her, without so much as glancing her way. He took one of the walkways that connected the two buildings. Ariala tried to peer over the railing, but all she saw was green and distance. Her stomach dropped at the thought of how high up they were; she re-focused her attention on the architecture. “A colony of Mythal’s, founded prior to her murder. This place was not so affected when Fen’Harel locked away the leaders and left chaos in his wake.”

 _Leaders,_ he had said. _Evanuris_ , the Well translated, in a whisper that sounded like Mythal.

“How did you get here?” she asked. “The Tirashan is a long way from the Arbor Wilds, and it has been two and a half years since the Temple.”

Abelas climbed a spiraled staircase and stopped on a platform built against the tree. Ariala glanced over at the bridge that connected the platform and another house. That one did not have a crystal dome, but a black slate roof, arched in some places for stained glass windows. So far away, she couldn’t make out the imagery of it.

“My brothers and sisters wanted to come here at once, but I was curious about the world these shemlen had built,” Abelas said, his lip curling slightly. It was the first evidence of his distaste, and, somehow, it seemed as though it was not meant for her. In fact, since they started their conversation, he had not once looked as though he was sucking on a lemon when talking to her.

Wait a second.

An ancient elf said the word shemlen, and _didn’t_ direct it at her?

 _I’ll have to tell Varric_ , she thought, smiling, until she remembered that Varric was in Kirkwall, on the opposite side of the world. He hadn’t even been at the wedding.

Her smile fell. Abelas glanced down at her once, his golden eyes careful but intruiged more than anything else. It was a refreshing change, even if she knew she was likely to be interrogated once she was healed. “The shemlen attempted to kill me. They did not succeed, but it discouraged me from any further curiosities. I made my way here, and now we protect this city, as we once did the Temple.”

Ariala nodded. They were halfway across the bridge now, and she could see dozens of buildings spread out through the trees. Silhouettes of elves walked across bridges, someone played a lute—or what sounded like a lute—and birds flew between trees. The very jungle seemed to hum with crickets and creatures she couldn’t begin to name.

An entire city of ancient elves. If this knowledge was made known at the upcoming Arlathvhen… every single Dalish elf would hitch their aravels to the halla and head to the Tirashan. Ariala couldn’t quite decide if that would be a good thing or not.

This building had metal doors, metal gates whose bars were twisted into flames and branches. On either side of the grate were dragons, their heads tilted toward the sky and their maw stretched open. The doors were propped open, allowing him to walk inside freely. An elvhen woman, somehow beautiful despite the streaks of silver in her hair, was mixing potions at a long table. She looked up when Abelas entered, her eyebrows rising. When she saw the blood on Ariala’s feet and the bruises on her throat, her eyebrows rose further.

“Quickly, over here,” she ordered, setting down her vials to walk around the table. She led Abelas to a fresh, clean bed, and Ariala sighed as he set her down on the mattress. The healer snapped for Abelas to fetch some supplies and lifted a foot into her lap, carefully examining the cuts across the skin.

While Abelas looked for a healing potion and bandages, the healer looked at Ariala, her brow furrowed. She gently touched the finger-shaped bruises on her neck. “Who did this to you, child?”

Ariala tried for a grin. She wasn’t quite sure if she succeeded or not. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Abelas returned, and the healer set to cleaning the glass out of her feet. In a quiet exchange, Abelas told her what happened. The healer frowned several times, but she did not waver as she wiped the blood away with a cool cloth and bound Ariala’s feet in gauze. When she moved on to her hands, Ariala couldn’t stop herself. “You don’t have magic?”

“My partner does. My family was one of many who lost their magic when the Veil was created. Thankfully, we have healing potions to make up the difference.” The healer smiled, and cut off the bandage wrapped around the Anchor with a neat snip of her scissors. It made her palm itch, but Ariala was not going to complain.

When the healer finished, she gave Ariala a small vial of health potion. Ariala took a sip—it was sweeter than she was used to, and settled warmly in her stomach. She took another sip, her brow furrowing when she didn’t taste any elfroot. Abelas and the healer waited until she had downed the entire thing, and then the woman took the vial from her.

Strange. They must’ve had different herbs here in the jungle.

Abelas accompanied the healer back to her table, and their conversation was too hushed for Ariala to hear clearly.

But all of her attention on the secret conversation disappeared when the elves brought Fen in. She sat up, her eyes on his wan face. She wanted to stand up, hobble over to the bed they set him on and take his hand in hers. But she knew from enough time in Skyhold’s field hospital that her presence would only hinder the healers’ efforts.

The woman beside Abelas snapped something out as she joined Fen’s side, too fast for her to catch. In the flurried conversation that followed, she only caught the words “infection,” “severe burns,” and “weak.” None of that made her feel any better.

A man leaned over Solas, his palms glowing with violet magic—the healer’s partner, presumably. As he worked, the woman returned to her table, adding ingredients and mixing them together with water and other, unrecognizable plants. The elves that had helped carry him left the building, casting concerned glances over their shoulders as they went. All the while, Abelas stood by the doors, his body unmoving but his gaze shifting from Ariala to Fen.

“Don’t let him die,” she repeated, in Common.

“They will try to prevent it,” he said.

While the man worked over Fen, the healer cooked up something on her alchemical table. After an agonizingly long time, during which the man had snapped at her to hurry more than once, she went to Fen’s side as well, a bowl of thick mint-green paste in her hands. Together, the healers slathered it over his torso and shoulders, until the salve covered any evidence that Fen had been injured. Then they lifted him up, ignoring his small moan of pain, and did the same to his back. The man dried the salve with a spell and they lowered him back onto the mattress.

When Fen’s breathing was visible and steady, Ariala felt her heartbeat return to normal. She clenched her burnt hands, surprised that she only felt a small twinge of pain. The healing potion must’ve been working faster than anticipated.

The woman sat back with a sigh. “Will he be all right?” Ariala asked, and the two elves looked at her in surprise.

At last, the man nodded. “He should be. Provided he does not sleep.”

“Sleep?” repeated Ariala. “He’s already sleeping.”

The mage shook his head. “No, a sleep for mages. When a mage is… diminished in power, he might sleep, and his spirit will flee to the Fade while his body recovers. Until his spirit senses that it is safe to return, he will remain unconscious. That is the sleep of which I speak. If his spirit does not think the body is significantly healed, it may not return, and he will die.”

Ariala swallowed hard.

The woman put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. I will let you know if that happens.”

The mage left, sparing her only a cursory second glance, and once again the only awake people were the healer, Abelas, and Ariala.

“That _won’t_ happen, right?” she clarified. She flashed a small, nervous smile. Elgar’nan had purposely made Fen fall asleep—what if this was his intent? What if he wanted Fen to succumb to his injuries without having to spare any energy fighting him?

“If his injuries were any less severe, I would not worry. But they are so great, I would be surprised if his soul did _not_ seek out the Fade.” Ariala felt her stomach drop and her heart thud somewhere in her gut. Her change in mood must’ve been visible, because the woman’s face softened. “It is a painless death, child. Take comfort in that.”

Ariala felt herself nod, slowly. “Thank you,” she whispered, and looked back at Fen’s slow breaths. “I… could I be alone? For a few minutes?”

The healer and Abelas exchanged a look. “Walk with me, sentinel,” said the woman, gesturing with a nod. She and Abelas moved to the opposite end of the huge room and resumed their quiet discussion. Neither of them looked back at her.

Well. That was the best she could get, she supposed.

Ariala looked back at Fen, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She eased herself onto the balls of her feet, wincing slightly at the soreness that sent a twinge through her arches. When she was standing, she wobbled over to Fen’s bed.

He didn’t move when Ariala sat beside him. She pushed him slightly, making more room for herself. When there was an opening she clasped his hand in her Anchored one and lay down beside him. His palm was hot, bordering on uncomfortable, but the rest of his body looked clammy.

Ariala threaded their fingers together and dropped their joined hands to the side, resting her head on the mattress. “Vhenan,” she whispered, and scoffed. Her next words were barely a whisper, more directed towards herself. “Oh, Ariala, you fool.”

As if he would hear her, and drop whatever beauties he currently witnessed to return to the world. As if he would relinquish whatever majesties he found in the Fade to come home to her.

Still. She had to try to coax him back. She was selfish.

Truly, she was not sure if she could carry on alone, so far from her friends. Ariala had done it once, with the Inquisition, but she had had her clan. She had had the knowledge that, perhaps, one day, she could close the Breach and return to her family.

This time, there was no such guarantee. And without the bedrock of her friends, without the comfort of a familiar face, she was not sure she had the strength to undergo such an ordeal a second time.

Ariala exhaled in a shaky rush and brought up Fen’s hand, kissing the back of his palm. “Vhenan,” she said again, a murmur that still somehow seemed too loud. “I know you love the Fade. I know you love your dreams. I know that you will be in pain when you open your eyes. But you cannot linger there. Please.” She lowered her lips to his ear. “Wake up, Fen’Harel. Wake up, Solas, ma vhenan. Wake up for me.”

Pulling away, she waited for any sign that he had heard her. A sharper breath, a squeeze of his hand, _anything_. She counted her heartbeats, measured his breaths, and heard nothing. Ariala swallowed and curled closer to him, careful not to touch the salve spread over his burns.

 

“I need to ask a favor,” she said. Solas rolled back his sleeves and dipped his paintbrush into red-gold paint. She was caught for a moment, staring at the lean muscle of his forearm, but when he turned to her she cleared her throat and straightened up. “Do you know anything about nightmares? Stopping them, I mean. Obviously.”

“Have you been having nightmares, Inquisitor?” Solas asked, stretching an arm to dab around the giant eye on the wall. The Eye of the Inquisition.

Creators, it still felt strange. Sometimes people called her Inquisitor as she walked past them and she didn’t know they’d been talking to her until it was too late. Josephine had had to soothe several wounded egos already.

“Yep. I was wondering if there’s a way to control dreams.”

Solas drew a long stroke of paint down in a diagonal ray of light. “If one is not a Dreamer, it is impossible to control dreams, yours or otherwise. However.” He turned his head and sent her a wry smile. “You continue to shatter the laws of reality on a daily basis. The Anchor gives you a unique connection to the Fade, a connection never before possible in these modern times. With the right guidance, you may be able to shape your dreams with your will alone. If that does not work, I could seek you out while you sleep, and guide you to better dreams.”

Ariala smiled. “I—thank you. You’d really do that?”

“Of course.” He turned back to the mural. “You are the Inquisitor. You must be at your very best to defeat Corypheus, and insomnia will not aid your goals.”

Ariala lifted her eyes to the library banister, where Dorian was undoubtedly listening in. But if she raised her voice, Solas would notice something. “I imagine dark circles would ruin my dazzling good looks, anyway.”

“Impossible,” he said, and stopped, seeming to realize what he had said. His paintbrush stilled on the fresco, then resumed its path, as if nothing had happened. Though his back was to her, Ariala bit back her grin.

“I’ll see you tonight, falon,” she said, and high-fived Dorian when she reached the library.

 

Ariala looked up and saw the healer standing over her. “Perhaps it is too early yet,” the woman offered, and from her expression it was clear that the words were meant to be reassuring. _Perhaps he isn’t actually wandering the Fade! Perhaps he’s just asleep!_

Except Solas was a light sleeper, especially alone. Except the slightest noise made him stir, every time.

“I will not leave him,” she insisted. Abelas joined the healer’s side and shook his head.

“It would be better to let her do as she wills,” he told her. “I know her. She is stubborn.”

“Thank you,” she said, but couldn’t find it in herself to be amused. She sighed and looked back at Fen. Perhaps, if he could find her during _her_ dreams… was it so unreasonable to assume that the reverse was also true? Was it so far-fetched to think she could venture into the Fade and bring him back to himself?

She had to try. She had to.

She was too afraid of what would happen if she didn’t.

“Abelas, do you know any sleep compulsion spells?” she asked. The sentinel’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly, but she could read comprehension in that inscrutable gaze. He brushed his fingers over her forehead, whispering that one command.

Ariala tightened her grip on Solas’s hand and succumbed to the tiredness that weighed down her body.

* * *

“Heya, sis.”

Ariala turned around as the details of the dream began to take shape. Ellana sat in Krem’s chair in the Herald’s Rest—so her dream was in Skyhold, then. The spirit turned her head, and Ellana’s vallaslin gleamed golden. A blue butterfly rested on her shoulder, its wings slowly fluttering.

Valor, then, and Faith. Their presence was a comfort, even knowing that they were Solas’s friends before they were hers.

“How is he?” she asked, softly. “Am I too late?”

Ellana sighed as she stood up and stretched out her hand. Ariala clasped it, and Herald’s Rest fell away from them. The butterfly lifted from her shoulder, flying away into the wide, empty expanse of the Fade. The spirit wearing her sister’s face followed Faith, and as they walked the vague mist began to form into more concrete shapes. She could feel stone under her bare feet.

“He is in his true dream,” Ellana explained. The mist around her pulled away, revealing trees vibrant with the blossoms of spring. “A place only those who slept in uthenera visited. We believe that he has relapsed because his body thinks he is powerless, and must go into a deep sleep to recover his lost magic.”

The mist cleared away, and suddenly Mahanon was there, standing at the edge of a barrier. The magic swirled emerald green, and though she did not bear the Anchor in her dreams, her left hand still pulsed at the sight.

Mahanon half-smiled when he saw her, but there was more melancholy than joy in his expression. He gestured to the barrier. “This is his mi’nas’sal’in—his deepest hopes, wishes, and desires, all made real. The dream is still young, so there is hope yet. Somehow, you must convince him that you are real, and everything else is not,” he informed her. “Once you are in, we cannot guarantee that you will be able to return. Not unless he goes with you.”

“What does this dream do, exactly?” Ariala asked. She raised a hand and pressed it against the barrier. For a moment, she felt a pulse of love, and joy, so potent she grinned and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She stepped away, her hand falling to her side. The ache that creeped into her was cold and empty. She wanted nothing more than to return to the elation that had lightened her heart and made her forget her worries.

Ah. She had her answer.

This would be harder than she’d thought.

“Ariala,” said Mahanon, somber and quiet. “Good luck. If anyone can bring him back, it will be you.”

Ariala smiled at him, then looked back at the barrier that separated her and Solas’s true dream.

He would not thank her for this, she knew. At least not right away. She knew she would be intruding on something deeply private. She would be a trespasser, witnessing things meant for him alone—if he had wanted her to know what he currently dreamed about, he would have told her.

But she could not lose him. If she had to face his hate to save him, she would do it in a heartbeat.

“Hold on, ma vhenan,” she whispered, and stepped into his true dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELVISH:  
> falon - friend  
> arla’ladarelan - literally, "home of the healer;" the clinic  
> mi'nas'sal'in - the intense feeling of missing something or someone that is deeply important or personal. similar to Brazilian "saudade" (but in this context, i'm using it more like the german sehnsucht)


	23. Chapter 23

_Oh,_ she thought, as the magic washed over her, as warmly as greeting an old, near-forgotten friend. It wrapped around her nightdress and tugged on the hem, lengthening it, bleaching it bone-white. The magic curled over her shoulders and replaced the cotton sleeves with smooth silk. Her bun unraveled, and her hair fell in loose waves down her back. Ariala shivered when the magic withdrew, and looked down to see herself wearing a wedding dress.

It was… simple. Elegant. Beautiful.

It broke her heart.

 _Oh,_ she thought, again, with significantly more dread. _Oh, Solas._

When she looked up, she was in a forest. Trees stretched above her, their canopies stretching toward others but never quite touching. The result was that there were hexagons of leaves blocking out the sky, with only a few cracks to let in the sunlight. Ariala raised her hand and watched golden light dapple across her skin.

She looked away from her hand, and noticed how detailed the forest was. When she approached a tree, she could see each line in the bark; she could hear birdsong, and the crunch of brush under her feet. When she looked around, she saw an eluvian resting against a tree, its frame golden. Two wolves graced the top of its frame, their heads nuzzling each other.

The eluvian opened as she approached it. She could feel its cool magic upon her skin, and everything felt so realistic she was half-convinced she had awoken in an abandoned corner of Thedas somewhere. Now that she thought about it, she could half-remember little things. Lilies in her hair, and glowing orbs of light to illuminate their wedding. Solas smiling widely as he kissed her, happier than he had ever been before. She could still feel the knot of excitement in her gut, as he had taken her hands and promised to love her—

_No._

This was Solas’s true dream. The things he longed for so acutely in the physical realm made manifest in the Fade. Nothing about this was real, no matter what her senses told her.

She told herself that, and saw her surroundings grow fuzzier in the corner of her eyes. She blinked back from the false memory and stared at the eluvian, glowing blue and inviting her to step inside.

She stepped inside. The eluvian did not lead to the crossroads. She left the forest and walked into a grand ballroom, crafted from crystal and gleaming metals she did not recognize. The floor was pure marble, veined through with gold and black and grey, and the ceiling was a vaulted crystal dome, similar to what she had seen in Dirthamen’s own home.

Okay. So far Solas’s ultimate happiness was living in an elvhen castle and seeing her in a wedding dress. She could work with that.

She looked down from the ceiling to gaze at the rest of the ballroom. The room solidified around her. The blurry circle in the center of the room sharpened into a gleaming mosaic of green and black and red and white. She walked to the center of the room and gazed down, swallowing when she saw what the tiles formed.

On the far end was the head of the Dread Wolf, its scruff outlined in black and silver. It had oval-cut red chips for eyes, three on each head. Across from it, facing the opposite end of the circular ballroom was a white wolf, with two emerald-green eyes. Ariala looked up, and gasped when she saw that the bare walls were not bare at all, but covered in murals. She covered her mouth with her fingertips. “Ma vhenan,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Across from the eluvian, on the other end of the ballroom, were wide double doors, crafted entirely from glass and ironbark. The right side of the doors formed the beginning of the story. She could see wolves howling around the Eye of the Inquisition, and a wolf underneath the Eye, its left paw cracked in half by green light. Two elves faced each other as equals, with their respective wolves in their shadows. Both of them were cloaked, their eyes concealed from the other. The last panel was of the two wolves running side by side, and the lovers dancing in their shadows. The rest of the ballroom was still unpainted.

 _For the future_ , she thought, and tears pricked her eyes. She pressed her trembling hand more firmly against her mouth, in an attempt to keep herself from crying.

This place was so… intricate. It was as if Solas had built his own personal shelter from the storm and ensured that there was no part left undetailed.

It was beautiful. So beautiful, and she _wanted_ it. She wanted to stay in this world and live in this paradise with her heart. Here, they could love each other without any worries about the future. No false god would try to kill them to hurt the other. They could be free.

They could be happy here. They _would_ be happy.

She felt a longing so sharp she felt it like a knife in her soul—and then she stepped away, gasping, tearing her eyes from the murals. Suddenly, the ballroom was too elaborate, too beautiful, too much. She needed to leave. She needed to think. She needed to breathe.

Ariala went to the double doors and pushed one open. The wind caressed her cheeks and carried the smell of salt on its back. She walked out onto the balcony and braced her hands on the rails, staring at the gentle waves cresting against the cliff below. _Not real_ , she tried to tell herself, but already she didn’t believe it. How could this world not be real, when she could feel the banister under her hands? How could it be false when its existence filled her with such potent joy?

She looked to her left hand, as if the Anchor would provide answers. It pulsed under her skin, emerald-green and vibrant. Something was off about that, but she couldn’t quite remember how.

“Ma vhenan,” said a voice, achingly familiar.

Ariala closed her eyes, all worries about the Anchor forgotten. A pair of arms wrapped around her waist and she felt warm lips against her neck. She placed her hands over his and leaned into his touch, laughing when she felt him smile against her skin.

“My love,” she returned, opening her eyes to stare at the cloudless sky above.

“I have been searching for you,” he told her, kissing her shoulder. “Where have you been? Exploring the castle? I did promise you a tour, did I not?”

“You did,” she agreed. She could remember her excitement as he had showed her their new home—as large as Skyhold, nestled in the northeastern cliffs of Elvhenan reborn, with enough room to house their court of scholars and artists. She turned in his arms and held his face, brushing his cheekbones with her thumbs. He smiled at her, his warmth and love seeping into her. He leaned forward, and Ariala closed her eyes as he kissed her properly, all teeth and tongue and hunger.

Seven years— _seven?_ That didn’t seem right. Or—yes, seven years, not a day over.

Ariala shook off the thought and grinned, cupping the back of his head in an attempt to get closer to him. Her thumbs brushed against his temples as she tilted her head and deepened the kiss.

Seven years they had loved each other, ever since that first kiss in the Fade, and she still could not get enough of him. His arms were around her waist, anchoring her to the present, clutching her to him as though releasing her would kill him. When they broke apart, their breaths mingling in the small space between their bodies, Solas kissed her forehead.

“Where to first, ma’sal’shiral?” he asked, brushing his lips against the tender point of her ear. She closed her eyes, trembling as a jolt of heat shivered through her. “The library?” She opened her eyes to see his smile deepen, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “The bedroom?”

She scoffed, and he laughed. “ _Patience_ , sa’lath,” she chided, pressing a fingertip against his bottom lip. Solas kissed it, and while she remained upright, her knees felt weak. She feathered her fingers against his cheek, instead, and he leaned into her touch, turning his head to peck her palm.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

“Sweet talker,” she said, and dropped her hand to his shoulder. “Let’s go look at the library.”

He clasped her hand tightly and pecked her forehead again. They walked side-by-side into the ballroom, but when they reached the mosaic in the center, Solas stopped. Ariala turned, and Solas lifted their clasped hands, threading their fingers together. He pulled her closer and placed a hand on her waist. He lifted the back of her hand to his lips and feathered a kiss over the delicate bones of her inner wrist. “Dance with me, first,” he whispered. “It has been a long time.”

“It has,” she agreed, smiling. Solas started to hum a melody she knew, and she joined in, smiling at him when his eyes snapped up to her in surprise. He clasped her hand tighter and stepped back, leading her into a slow, uncomplicated rhythm. Ariala was not a natural dancer—it had taken months of daily practice for Vivienne to deem her “passable”—but when she was with Solas, it seemed effortless, like floating.

The music was their humming, and when the song came to a close, so did their dance. Solas lifted his arm and Ariala spun underneath it. After she passed underneath his elbow, Solas moved his wrist to change the way he held her hand. Then he lowered their joined hands to rest it across her stomach, and kissed the juncture between her throat and shoulder.

“My love,” he whispered. Ariala hummed, basking in his warmth, her hands tight around his. They stood in the center of the ballroom for a long while, listening to each other’s heartbeat. He rested his chin on her shoulder. She turned her head and pecked the top of his head, squeezing his hand.

Nothing else mattered at that moment but them. She did not care for anything but her love for the man who held her, steady and bright, present in every pulse of her heart. The words were in her mouth, tucked under her tongue, waiting to be spoken, but it didn’t feel right. Somehow, she felt that there was a time better suited for what she wanted to say.

But when was _I love you_ more appropriate than when she was in the arms of her husband, and the world was at peace?

“Solas, I—” she began, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She snapped her mouth shut and closed her eyes, feeling her face heat. Why couldn’t she say such a simple truth?

Solas’s arms tightened around her. “I know, vhenan,” he said, planting a kiss on a sensitive spot underneath her jaw. She tilted her head back, granting him access, and he laughed. “But I believe I have a library to show you.”

He pulled away, and she ached for his warmth. Their hands still clasped together, they resumed their walk. Every so often, Ariala would pull back and stop, just to admire the tapestries that hung on the walls or the mosaics that lined the halls. As they drew closer to the library, servants would rush past, greeting her with a milady and a smile. Sometimes she even knew their names.

They turned a corner. A pair of painted golden doors was the only decoration at the end of the hall. “Close your eyes,” Solas whispered, and she did. He led her by the hand into the library. Ariala felt the sun on her face, heard the rustle of books, and smiled. The door clicked shut behind her.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and she did. The ceiling was painted to resemble a sunny day: soft clouds floated across the ceiling, their edges softened by rose-gold sunlight and the blue edges of the sky. Every bookcase was painted white, the better to brighten the room—though the enormous, ten-foot-tall arched windows did a wonderful job of letting in the sunlight. The floor was made of the same marble as the ballroom, though there were several seating areas where the tile was covered by plush, thick rugs.

Ariala tested the seats, climbed the ladders to reach the highest parts of the bookshelves, and thumbed through the books, marveling at the texture of the gilt-leafed edges under her fingers. Solas followed her as she examined every niche. The elves that studied in the library either ignored them or gave them fond smiles.

When Ariala sat in a window seat, Solas sat across from her. “Is it to your liking?” he asked, and she turned to him. There was something hopeful in his eyes. Muted, tentative, yes, but evident.

Ariala leaned forward and kissed him. It seemed to catch him off-guard, because he didn’t respond until she had moved almost out of reach—he wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her into his lap, capturing her lips in a quick, sweet kiss. When they parted, she traced his bottom lip with her thumb, her heart hammering underneath her ribs. “I love it,” she confessed.

“I have something to show you,” he replied.

They carefully disentangled and left the window seat. He led her to a small room, tucked away in a corner of the library. In the room were two easels, and paints, and tarps to cover the floor. Blank sketchbooks rested on a table, as did quills and rubs of charcoal. Ariala stilled, taking in the room in silence, and Solas wrapped an arm around her waist. She leaned against him, taking strength from his solid presence.

“I wondered if you would like to paint with me, sometime,” he said, quietly.

“I’ll probably be terrible at it,” she replied, just as softly.

“Practice improves any level of skill,” he assured her. Ariala laughed and pulled away. They left the studio hand-in-hand and returned to the library. She stopped at a bookshelf and ran her fingertip down the spine of a novel.

“Dorian would love this,” she mused. She grinned at the thought of her best friend, and her free hand went to her throat, grasping for the crystal necklace that kept them connected. Her fingertips brushed bare skin, and she remembered that she had left the necklace in Skyhold.

When she turned back to Solas, he looked stricken. His gutted expression made her take a step back, wary. Ariala looked at him, then looked at the library, and realized that every single scholar in the room was an elf. She hadn’t seen a single human since—since—she couldn’t remember.

“Where is Dorian?” she asked. Solas reached for her, and she knew that if she took a step back, it would only put needless distance between them and cause unnecessary pain. She took his hand, and he kissed her knuckles, holding her hand tightly.

“Let us continue the tour,” he said.

“That wasn’t ominous,” she said, cracking a strained smile. Solas attempted to return it and did not quite succeed. The grief was fresh in his eyes, and she wanted to chase it away—she would never bring up Dorian again, if it meant he could be happy.

They left the library, and she could hear the soft thrums of a lute echoing through the castle. Several elves dressed in the same finery as Ariala and Solas were talking in a corner, and the group greeted the duo with smiles and bows. Ariala greeted each one by name, and they moved on.

Solas led her to the bedroom. It was arrayed in tones of black and white and gold, and it was beautiful. Ariala’s throat closed up as she left his side to run her hands over the white silken bedspread, embroidered with black and gold patterns. There were flowers, too, dawn lotus and crystal grace and roses and lavender on every available surface.

Across the bed was another set of double doors. Ariala pushed one open and walked onto the balcony, observing the cliffs that was the castle’s foundation. A warm breeze rose up from the sea, lifting some strands of her hair. She watched the sea pound against the cliff for another long moment, then turned around and went back inside.

In the corner of the room was a chessboard. It was placed in front of another wide window, allowing a beautiful view of a waterfall that carved through the hills and roared into the sea. Ariala watched the waterfall, then looked down at the chessboard. She opened up a flap of the board and pulled out the black King.

It was a wolf. Other pieces were carved in animal symbolism, ravens and stags and owls. She felt each individual groove in the wolf and marveled at how real it felt. She set down the King and looked at Solas, who was watching her with open interest. She didn’t say anything—the lump in her throat was too hard to swallow. As the silence stretched on, Solas’s expression shifted. “I remembered your love of beauty during the Inquisition,” he said. “But perhaps—do you not like it? I can arrange for simpler accommodations—”

“Solas,” she said, and smiled as tears pricked her eyes. “Solas, this is wonderful.”

He exhaled, and some of the nervousness drained from his posture. He crossed the space between them and stroked her cheekbone. “I am glad,” he said, kissing her temple. Ariala wrapped her arms around him, feeling the silk of his tunic slide under her fingertips, and rested her cheek over his heart. They stayed locked in each other’s embrace, breathing each other in. Ariala closed her eyes and felt a tear slip free.

It was beautiful.

But it was too beautiful to be true. _This isn’t real_ , she told herself, yet she did not believe it until she thought of Dorian Pavus. Her best friend. The man who had her love as much as Solas, if not more.

“Where is Dorian, Solas?” she asked. He stiffened, then kissed the top of her head.

“He did not survive. You know that,” he said, and she pulled away, staring at him.

“Who killed him?” she asked. Her voice was unsteady, and her heart raced under her ribcage. Dorian couldn’t be dead. Neither of them would have allowed anything to happen to him. He was their friend. He wasn’t dead.

Solas must have seen something in her expression, because he slid a hand into her hair and rested his forehead against hers. “It was not by our hand, vhenan. He led a war against us—”

“No,” she cut off, and pulled away from him. She shook her head and went back to the balcony, bracing herself on the railing. Solas was at her side in an instant. He didn’t touch her, but she knew he wanted to; she could read it in his eyes. She shook her head again. “He wouldn’t do that to us. Not to me. Not Dorian.”

“My heart,” he said. His voice was soft, wretched, and certain above all. “I am so sorry. I know what he meant to you.”

Ariala closed her eyes and sucked in a mouthful of sea air. It was wrong, this salt in her lungs, this ocean spray on her cheeks. She needed the fresh air of a forest. She needed to feel soil under her feet, not cold tile. She needed reality.

 _This isn’t real_ , she told herself, and her head throbbed with pain. She curled her palms on the banister, digging her nails into her palms. When she bit her cheek, the blood filled her mouth, and she focused on the coppery taste to keep herself grounded.

Dorian was alive. Dorian was alive, and whole, and this was not _real_.

 _How will you escape this?_ Solas whispered in her ear, from a time long ago. There were no fears to escape this time. Instead, she would have to shatter what made Solas happiest. “Wake up,” she said, but her voice was a whisper. She looked at Solas. “Wake up,” she repeated, louder.

Nothing happened. Solas furrowed his brow and took a step back. She closed the distance again, and he raised his hands, his eyes widening with panic. “Vhenan, please, do not—”

The Anchor sparked in her hand. “Wake up!” she shouted, and a crack ran up the stone walls of the castle. She was not married, her Anchor wasn’t green anymore, and Dorian was alive. She fisted her hands in his tunic, ignoring how her Anchor began to pulse blue. “This isn’t _real_ , Solas. This is the Fade! Can’t you feel it?”

He knew.

She could see it in his eyes.

Perhaps he had known all along. _Oh, vhenan._

The cloudless, sunny sky abruptly turned dark. Solas looked at the castle behind them, watched further crevices in the stone widen and spiderweb across the castle. “Please,” he tried, but he seemed unable to get the rest of his words out. When he looked back at her, his eyes were pleading, so wretched it ached like a livid bruise. Tears spilled down Ariala’s cheeks.

He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to wake up.

She touched his cheek with her Anchored hand, and its brightness bathed him in teal-green light. She thought of the Tirashan forest, of the houses in trees, of the scars that now crisscrossed Solas’s body. She imagined the castle crumbling into dust, envisioned the world going black as they were pulled from the Fade. Thunder boomed as the castle began to shake, and the Anchor glowed hotter in her hand.

“Wake up,” she said again, raising her voice to drown out the thunder. Lightning cracked across the sky. The glass in the doors and windows shattered, tinkling softly as the shards fell into the ocean. The Anchor hummed with power, and the stone railing began to collapse. Blocks of marble disintegrated as they, too, plummeted to the sea.

Solas watched the destruction, his eyes wide and his grip on her hand tight. “No,” he whispered. The horror on his face wrenched at her heart.

Ariala wept as she forced his dream to bend to her will. _Destroy_ , she thought, and the cliffs around them distorted.   _None of this is real. Destroy it all!_

The balcony they stood on jolted, the stone giving way under her feet. The ironbark and silverite supports groaned as they began to bend, the weight of the balcony too much strain. Solas fell and Ariala went to her knees, clutching his hand. Her part of the landing had buckled to an extreme angle but was still stable. Solas, however, had nothing but her hand to keep him from falling into the roiling sea below.

“I’ve got you,” she grunted, her free hand scrambling for something to hold onto. The marble was slick under her palm and she couldn’t get a good grip. At last, she gripped the edge of a crevice in the stone—if she lost her grip, they would both tumble into the sea; but let him go, and she could pull herself back to safety.

Yeah. That wasn’t happening.

“Vhenan,” he gasped, and looked up at her. The light of the Anchor bathed half his face in green and illuminated the fear in his eyes. “Please. Let go—”

Already, she could feel his hand slipping through hers. She tightened her grip on his hand and scooted forward. Lightning cracked again, followed by a deafening roll of thunder. “I will never let go of you again,” she promised, and released the crevice.

As she fell, she caught a glimpse of a bone-white woman standing on the shore. _Well done, Inquisitor_ , Mythal whispered in her ear. Ariala closed her eyes as the ocean rose up to meet her.

_Wake up._

 

Ariala woke with the taste of the sea in her mouth, and the sensation of falling into a depthless abyss. She started, twisting on the bed. She would have fallen off if an arm did not wrap around her middle and scoop her backwards, holding her for dear life.

Fen cradled the back of her head, gasping. She wrapped an arm around his middle as well and closed her eyes as he pressed dozens of kisses to her scalp, his hand tight in her hair. “Forgive me,” she murmured against his skin, fervently, as though her apologies could convey the depths of her grief.

She had found him at peace and happier than he’d ever been, and she had snatched that joy from him because she could not bear to be alone.

“Forgive me,” she sobbed. She was so selfish. “My love, please, forgive me—”

Fen’s fingers loosened in her hair, though his arm tightened around her waist. “We are safe?” he whispered. Ariala nodded, her tears wetting her cheeks and his skin.

“We are safe,” she promised, and clung to him, her shelter in the storm.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas & Ariala reconcile, and put their issues to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my thoughts are with paris. 
> 
> thank you for the awesome feedback on last chapter, guys! good to know you guys didn't forget about this overly angsty fic during the hiatus. you keep my inspiration afloat!
> 
> ... also, i listened to "it's quiet uptown" the entire time i wrote this. sorry. [exits stage left, pursued by a bear]

Ariala had been in the Tirashan colony for two days, and she was avoiding Fen. She had been released from the clinic once the healer had deemed her fully recovered, but Fen had had to stay behind. The sentinels who guarded the settlement had relocated her to a small, simple home, still furnished. Apparently its previous owner had died of old age many years ago, and they just hadn’t gotten around to fixing the place.

Cleaning her designated little house gave her something to focus on, and gave her an excuse not to show her face except for dinner. The colony didn’t seem to use any kind of currency, and everything was a joint affair, including meals. Abelas had stopped by once, promising that they would discuss the events leading up to her and Fen stumbling through the colony’s eluvian, but he had yet to come through on it.

She currently sat on her bed, watching the rainstorm through the large windows. Gray light turned everything silvery or blueish colors. The Tirashan storms verged on thundering, but never quite reached that point, and they seemed to be a daily occurrence. Ariala closed her eyes, listening to the heavy patter of the rainfall.

The echoing slam of a door closing grabbed her attention. Ariala opened her eyes and rolled off her bed, crouching behind the mattress as she scanned the sparse room for anything that could be used for a weapon. Abelas had yet to return Andruil’s bow and arrows, and for a moment she bitterly wished she had pressed the matter.

But then she heard footsteps, and she recognized the gait. Ariala closed her eyes. Sighing, she summoned her courage and stood up.

Fen stood just inside the front door, his palms pressed flat against the heavy wood. His tunic was plastered to his body, and his skin glistened with the rain. He looked up when she entered, and swallowed. “Forgive me the intrusion,” he said, pulling away from the doors. “The healer recently released me, and I thought it best that we talk—”

“Did you walk through the rain?” she asked, incredulous. He nodded, and she shook her head. “Come here. We need to dry you off before you catch cold. We can talk when you’re not shivering.”

“I am not—” he protested, and then his body shuddered. Ariala raised an eyebrow, and he half-smiled. “Perhaps you are right.”

“It happens,” she said. His smile gave her hope. He couldn’t be—he couldn’t be _too_ angry at her, could he? His nose got all scrunchy when he was irritated. But his expression was carefully neutral, and everything was up in the air when he was in that kind of mood.

She took his hand and led him back into the room. He stopped when he saw the bed. “Perhaps it is best—” he started, and she cut him off with another tsk. “I will get your sheets wet,” he protested, but she still sat him down.

“You couldn’t wait until after the rainstorm to come see me?” she asked, sitting astride his thighs.

“I wanted to see you before Abelas,” said Fen.

She hummed, beginning to tug at the hem of his damp tunic. Fen caught her wrists and pulled them away, kissing her knuckles. “Leave it be,” he murmured.

“You’ll get sick,” she said. He raised his head and met her gaze, and this time he allowed her to see the misery on his face. Guilt’s sharp blades twisted inside her, and she looked away, ashamed. She didn’t regret bringing him back from the Fade—but she did regret that she had invaded his privacy to do so.

“It is but a simple matter of an internal heating spell,” he told her. “I will be fine, vhenan. You worry too much.”

“Do you even have the power?” she asked. His silence was all she needed. She sighed, pressing her Anchored hand against his cheek and her forehead against his. Its harsh, bright light bathed his skin in a strange combination of blue and green. She closed her eyes and pushed some of her power into him.

Fen sighed, and after a long moment his skin warmed under her hand. Ariala ran her hand up his scalp and laughed when she felt short bristles of hair under her fingertips. She pulled away and used her hand to illuminate the dark stubble across his scalp. “So _that’s_ your hair color,” she teased. “You know, Varric bet me ten royals that you were a ginger—”

Fen grabbed her wrist and kissed her palm. She sent another wash of power into him, and the light of the Anchor dimmed. Her hand felt as though she had released some hidden pressure trapped underneath her skin. He wrapped an arm around her waist and she laughed as he pulled them both down onto the bed. He laughed, too, and she tucked the sound of it into the furthest crevices of her heart, using his joy to knit the shattered pieces back together.

Eventually, their mirth subsided, and Ariala’s smile faded. She pushed herself up and turned away, preparing to get off of the bed—

A hand wrapped around her arm, just above her elbow. “Don’t go,” he whispered behind her. Ariala turned around, wide-eyed, and bit her lip to keep her words from rushing out of her, thick and heavy as a flood.

“Fen,” she said.

His gaze, once soft, sharpened. His hand tightened on her arm. “What did you call me?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“Fen,” she repeated, slower this time. He exhaled, harshly, but his eyes never left her face.

“No,” he whispered, in anguish. “Ma vhenan, no.”

“What is it?” she asked, aching to ease his pain. She scooted forward on the bed and held his face in her hands. “Tell me how I can help—”

“You sound like Cole,” he said, chuckling without mirth. “Always placing another’s welfare before your own.”

“I was a hunter, remember?” she replied, forcing a smile. “Taking care of people is what I do.”

Fen took her hands and threaded their fingers. “Why did you call me Fen?”

“Because—it’s your name.”

Something broke in his expression, and he looked away. “To you, I would be Solas,” he said. “Fen—it is a nickname. One used only by the false gods. Mythal bestowed it upon me, several centuries before her murder.”

Ariala stilled, the weight of his words settling heavy in her stomach. The man before her—calling him Fen felt right. It felt as though he had never been anything but Fen to her.

But that—that was not her. “No,” she whispered, pulling away from him. “No. No, I—she doesn’t control me!”

“I know, vhenan—” he began. She rolled off the bed and stood in front of the window, watching the rainstorm. The rain came down in droves, pounding so hard it left a white sheen on the pathways.

“If she can influence my thoughts… what is me and what is her? I don’t even know anymore.” She turned back to him and tried to say his name. His true name, the one she had used for as long as she’d known him. “S-S-” Why couldn’t she say it? She drove her nails into her palm until she felt sharp pinpricks of pain, and she finally got the words out. “ _Solas!_ Solas.”

She chanted his name until it did not feel so strange in her mouth.

Fen’Harel— _Solas_ , damn it— _Solas_ was at her side in heartbeats, his thumbs tucking underneath her clenched fingers and unfurling them. “I did not say it to hurt you,” he said. She shook her head, speechless.

Solas wrapped their entwined arms around her waist. He pressed his lips against the apple of her cheek. “Tell me a joke, vhenan.”

A joke. He wanted her to make light of this? She wasn’t so young, not anymore. She shook her head. “You’re worried about hurting me?” she asked, with a bitter laugh. “Solas, you should be furious at me. I don’t even know why you’re here after what I did.”

He sighed, brushing his lips against her temple, and Ariala bit her lip as tears pricked her eyes. “A joke, please,” he requested again.

“You asked me what Ghilan’nain said to me,” she said at last. Solas’s arms tightened around her. She took a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand underneath her aching heart. She threaded her fingers through his, resting their conjoined hands on her stomach. Solas kissed the crown of her head. “She said, ‘Fen’Harel is not kind. He will feed you cruelty until you choke, and call it love.’ I don’t think I’ll ever forget those words.”

“I—”

 “Ghilan’nain told me how she became one of the false gods. She told me Andruil gave Ghilan’nain a shard of her own soul. It made me think… with all your talks about shards, I never once considered it was Mythal. I mean, I thought she was dead. I thought the Anchor was the shard— _your_ shard. I thought you grew close to me for the Anchor and nothing else. I’d be more likely to give you the orb if I loved you, right?” She laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “I felt so—betrayed, thinking that you had never meant any of it. You’d never betray me, I know, but I think… it would hurt more. It would hurt more because I know you love me.”

“You were an anomaly,” he said, his voice ragged. “Your mastery of the Anchor fascinated me, true. But your strength of heart, your willingness to help and to care for others, your determination against insurmountable odds—that was what drew me to you. I did not lie when I said that my whole world changed.”

He breathed her in, planting another kiss to her hair. “I love you. I cannot cease my love of you, not without deadening my heart first.”

Ariala closed her eyes, her lips parting. The words were readier this time, just on the tip of her tongue, but she held back. She did not want to tell him how she felt when there were tears in her eyes. She wanted the moment to be when they were happy. But right now, she was tired.

The rain pounding on the tiled roof sounded like a song. His body was warm enough that she could feel his heat through her clothes. “This place is beautiful,” she said, and he hummed in agreement. His fingers traced aimless patterns across her stomach.

“I do not blame you for what you did,” he said, after several long, quiet moments. Ariala tightened her hold on his hands. “I only fear that you will regret your actions, and that you will wish you had left me in the dream.”

“Never,” she vowed, turning in his arms. She held his face and he gripped her hips. She studied his face, counting the freckles on his face. Softly, she continued, “You don’t… you aren’t angry at me?”

Solas kissed her forehead. “Were I in your place, I would have done the same thing. You saw nothing that I have not longed to share with you, vhenan. Do not… do not blame yourself over this. It is not your fault that my mind decided to retreat into the Fade to recover, rather than face any pain.”

She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him. Solas clutched her to him, groaning when she hugged his ribs too tightly. “Sorry,” she murmured into his still-damp tunic. He chuckled, his hands running down her hair and her back in long, soothing strokes.

He smelled like rain and medicine, but she could still detect the herbs that always clung to him. His familiar scent comforted her. They stood in one another’s embrace until Ariala pulled away and smiled. This time, it felt easier to smile. The name _Solas_ did not seem so foreign to her. She pushed herself onto her tiptoes and pecked his lips. When she dropped back down, she spread her hands over his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palm.

“We’ll deal with all of it,” she said, meeting his quiet gaze. “Mythal. The false gods. Whoever attacked Anora at the wedding. We’ll figure out how to solve those problems together.”

He nodded. “As we have always done.”

The title of Inquisitor had weighed on her until she broke. The loss of her family, the treatment of the elves, the truth about her people; all had added their own spiderwebs of cracks to her being. Solas had put that final pressure on her glass, had shattered her nearly beyond repair. Her friends had never been so skilled to heal her on their own.

She would weld the pieces of herself back together and forge herself anew. She was the last of Lavellan; she would make her clan proud. She would make herself proud.

She would heal, and she would carry on, and he would be at her side.

“No running this time, all right? I—I don’t want to be alone. I will definitely go after you this time.”

“Never again, vhenan.” He drew her close and smiled into her hair. “May I tell you a secret? In the two years we were apart, I dreamt of you every day. There was a saying—if what you love returns to you after you set it free, then it is truly yours. I am too weak a man to let you go now.”

Ariala grinned and moved so she was looking at him. “How does a wolf greet a friend?” she asked, drumming a finger against his heart. Solas raised an eyebrow.

Her grin deepened. “ _Howl_ you doing?”

He smiled, and his eyes crinkled in the corners.

It was enough.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, when my old computer broke, I lost 100% of my previous notes, prewritten chapters, etc... which has really taken a hit on my motivation for this fic, so much so that it's almost zero. I'm still writing this, but please do not expect any sort of regular updating schedule. Thanks for your understanding!
> 
> also, pls note the change in rating. those of you who would rather not read about elves gettin' it on, you can stop when ariala and solas start talking about baths - no more plot after that. :)

The rain danced on the roof as Ariala took in Solas’s appearance. “You’re exhausted,” she whispered, stroking one of the circles underneath his eyes. “C’mon, you want to nap with me? Have you eaten yet?”

Solas smiled, almost wistfully. “Yes,” he replied—she wasn’t sure if he meant that he’d eaten, or that he wanted to take a nap. The communal lunch was only a few hours away. They could nap and go to lunch together. Best of both worlds.

She climbed onto the bed and reached for him. He met her halfway, and she threaded their fingers together as he pulled the coverlet back and she burrowed under the covers. Ariala curled up beside him and pressed her toes against his calves. For a heartbeat, it felt as if they were still in Skyhold. A lump welled in her throat and she shut her eyes.

He smiled against her hair, fingers stroking down her spine. “I have missed you, vhenan,” he confessed against the crown of her forehead.

Ariala fought back the melancholy by pecking a spot on his chest and shifting closer. She slung an arm over his waist. “Mm. I missed you, too. But we have each other now.”

He held her, and she listened to the quiet patter of the rain until she fell asleep.

Her dreams were—strange. Flashes of black eyes, and bloodied tiles, and bleached white dragon wingbones. Fleeting visions that had no real connection to each other, but, somehow, also felt intrinsically woven together. Ariala dreamed of running through a murky forest in a torn wedding dress, and as she ran, the forest shifted to the gilded halls of an unfamiliar palace.

She turned a corner and found herself walled in. _Ariala_ , a voice whispered just over her shoulder. She turned and saw nothing. The room grew smaller, and she tasted blood in her mouth. Cold metal pressed against her throat. _Ariala. Ariala!_

She woke up with a gasp, cold sweat chilling her skin. Solas was propped on his elbow, staring down at her with wide eyes. His hand was on her arm. “You would not wake,” he explained, removing his hand. “I could not find you in the Fade, but when I awoke, you were still asleep. I could not— _you would not wake._ ”

He fisted his hand, and it trembled by his side. Ariala reached for him and carefully uncurled his fingers, placing the flat of his palm against her heart. Her pulse was erratic against her ribs, pounding so hard it left her lightheaded. “I’m here now,” she whispered.

Her words did not reassure him. He stared at his hand over her heart, his brow furrowing with the weight of his thoughts. “I would prevent a recurrence of that, if possible,” he said, but he settled beside her and drew her close. His eyes were blue against the dark grey light of the room. “Where did you go, vhenan?”

“I—I don’t know,” she admitted. She thought of the wingbones she had seen and turned her attention inward, reaching for the place in her soul that the All-Mother had carved for herself. But Mythal was still very much present, if slumbering. Ariala swallowed hard and refocused on Solas.

“Dirthamen,” he said, quietly, spitting his brother’s name as though it were a curse. “If he is responsible—”

“No.” She shook her head, recalling the bloodied raven fleeing Sylaise’s temple. “Solas, I need to tell you something about your brother.”

He listened as she explained what had happened while he had been unconscious—Dirthamen and Elgar’nan’s exchange, Dirthamen’s knowledge of the shards’ locations, and, most damningly, how Dirthamen had acted while Ariala was possessed.

When she finished, Solas looked toward the windows, frowing. “I would have known if she had made a separate deal with my brother. She cannot keep secrets from her host.”

“And if her host never asked? She’s quiet, right now. It’s happened every time she’s possessed me—she takes over, then… falls asleep for a little bit. Where does she go when she needs to rest? What does she do to get her strength back?”

Solas turned onto his back, considering the ceiling with clear unease. After a long, quiet moment, he turned back to her, brushing the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. “I will investigate,” he assured her.

Ariala caught his hand. “Keep me updated. I’m a part of this, too.”

His gaze softened. “Yes. A fact I must accept, no matter how much I wish otherwise.” She raised an eyebrow, a silent question, and he sighed as he turned toward her. “I should have found a way to free you from the false gods the day you arrived. I should have contacted the Inquisition in secret. I could have prevented—”

She squeezed his hand, and he sighed through his nose. He carefully pulled his hand from hers and pressed it over her chest. While he did not speak, his meaning was clear, as was the half-hidden anguish in his eyes. “My attempts to fix my mistakes always have ruinous ends, and my best efforts have not spared you the consequences. I am sorry for that.”

Ariala could not think of anything to say in response. “At least you acknowledge that awakening the pantheon was a terrible idea,” she said at last, attempting for levity.

“I did not say that,” he replied.

“It’s still true,” she said, softly, to gentle her words. Solas looked away and did not respond.

Ariala sighed and sat up, lifting up the neckline of her nightgown to wipe the sweat off of her forehead. She let the clothing drop back down and looked outside, making a face when she saw the darkened sky. How long had their nap been? “We probably missed lunch.”

“Dinner will be in a few hours,” Solas said.

“Well, in that case, I should clean up. There’s a bath upstairs. Can’t let them see the shemlen be anything less than perfect.”

Her tone was harsher than she’d anticipated. Solas’s gaze flicked back to her, softened with regret. She stared at him for a few moments and then flopped back down on the bed, covering her eyes with her hands. “Forget I said that. I don’t care what they think, really.”

“You should not,” Solas replied. He settled beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist and nosing against a sensitive spot on her neck. Ariala squirmed away, laughing, but he followed her, brushing a kiss over her pulse point. “You will shatter their preconceptions, as you did mine.”

Ariala stilled, turning her head to gaze at him. Their noses brushed. “You think so?” she murmured, hating how small her voice was.

Solas’s only response was a smile. She turned onto her side, facing him fully, and skirted the backs of her knuckles down his face. He caught her wrist and turned, nuzzling into her palm. She thumbed his lower lip. “I need to bathe. You’re… welcome to join me,” she said, meeting his gaze.

Solas froze. His throat bobbed in a swallow, but he did not look away from her.

Ariala swallowed. “For my bath, I mean! So we can clean up for dinner. Obviously, not like _that_. I mean—if you want—but you were never all that interested before, so, um—”

He released her wrist and cupped her face instead. Ariala closed her eyes, savoring his warmth—and then his lips pressed against hers. It was gentle, more for the comfort of contact than anything else, but she sighed, and melted into the kiss. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Ariala made a soft noise when he rolled onto his back, bringing her along until she was half-on top of him. Ariala climbed over him until she was straddling him firmly, then cupped his face in her hands and kissed him deeply.

Solas made a soft noise somewhere in the back of his throat, and a thrill went through her. There was a knot where Ariala’s stomach should have been, a hard stone of uncertainty and hesitance. But every brush of his lips against hers loosened it, until it unraveled entirely, and she could just focus on the warmth thrumming through her veins.

He broke the kiss, and Ariala hesitated, her nose just brushing against his. Solas swallowed, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You did not know my identity then. I did not wish to place an undue burden on your shoulders. To lay with you, without your knowledge of the truth, was intolerably selfish of me. But now…”

He trailed off, and did not finish. The hand lingering at her cheek lowered, brushing against the swell of her breast before curving around her back. Ariala’s mouth went dry. “Now is different,” she replied, cupping his face in her palms. “You’re grim and fatalistic, I like to make bad jokes. We’re made for each other.”

“Yes,” he said, hushed. “If you would have me.”

Ariala kissed him again. Still gentle, still slow—still allowing him a way out, should he choose that path. “Ar lath ma,” she murmured, her gaze flicking up to meet his eyes. There was no hesitancy, no feeling of wrongness that held her back. “Solas. Fen’Harel. Ma sal’shiral.”

There was no compulsion on her part—whether through a goddess’s will, or through the impending threat of an arrow to her heart. There was just her, and Solas, and the rainclouds outside casting blue across the room.

Solas anchored her face between his hands and stared at her, his gaze flicking across her face as though he was searching for some great, hidden secret. There was a nearly-imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth, and she could not decide if he looked elated or devastated.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he said finally, a fervent, reverent whisper. His hands threaded through her hair and he brought her down, arching up to meet her before falling back onto the pillows. Ariala tilted her head, tasting him, and his hands ran through her hair, combing it until the thick tresses of it fell down one shoulder and shielded them from the right side of the room.

Gods, but she’d missed him. They had kissed at Sylaise’s temple, but between the watching eyes and the stress of her impending hunt with Andruil, there had never been moments of quiet intimacy such as these. Ariala broke the kiss to breathe and Solas trembled underneath her, his hands charting the expanse of her back over her nightgown.

She nosed at the underside of his jaw, then planted kisses down his throat. “What do you say we skip the bath?” she asked. Her voice was a little breathier than she’d anticipated, but that was okay. Kissing Solas had always done embarrassing things to her, like make her knees go weak and tremors run through her stomach. This was no different.

He surprised her, then, by sitting up, holding her tight around the waist. His lips were at her throat, then, and as she ran her nails gently across his fuzzy scalp his hands went to the hem of her nightgown. His hands rested on the outside of her thighs, a warm, enticing weight, but they did not move. “May I?” he asked, pressing a kiss to her exposed collarbone.

“Why, go right ahead,” Ariala replied, kissing his forehead. He laughed, light little chuckles that rumbled through her, and then he was tugging her nightgown up and over her head. He stilled after he’d tossed the garment to the side, and Ariala sat back on his lap so he could have a better view.

His gaze flashed up to hers, and she gave him a coy grin. “Like what you see, vhenan’ara?”

Solas half-smiled, but there was something melancholy in his expression. Ariala tipped his chin up with two fingertips. “What is it?” she asked, and for the briefest moment, insecurity sank in the pit of her stomach. Had he changed his mind? Had he decided that he didn’t want her, after all—

Solas placed his hand on her hips and carefully rolled them over. Ariala huffed as her back hit the mattress, and she stared up at Solas, who was still looking at her with a frighteningly unreadable expression. His eyes were glassy, and tight in the corners.

“Vhenan, tell me what’s wrong,” she pleaded, reaching for him. Solas leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. And then he pulled away, and dropped a kiss to her stomach. There was a new lightning tree branching over her abdomen, stretched underneath the skin, gained from when she had unwittingly walked into the barrier in his prison cell underneath Sylaise’s temple.

“Forgive me,” he whispered in Elvhen, and Ariala went still.

Solas moved to her arm, then, tracing the lightning tree cascading down her bicep before pressing his lips there as well. She had gotten that one when they were waiting for Andruil, and he had accidentally electrocuted her. “Forgive me,” he murmured against her skin, and she closed her eyes. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep them from falling.

She knew where his next kiss would be before he placed it.

She waited, holding her breath as he kissed the scar over her chest. It was large, still pink and healing. This kiss was a mothwing’s touch, the gentlest of the three, but the slight pressure still sent a throbbing, sharp discomfort through her sternum. Solas shuddered, and she opened her eyes to meet his pained gaze. “My love, forgive me,” he said.

The throb in the center of her chest was laced with pain so acute she wondered how she could breathe. She reached for him, grateful that he did not pull away when she held his face in her hands. Instead of answering, she brought his face down to hers, letting all of her feelings flow through their kiss and into him. _It wasn’t your fault,_ she thought, and dropped a hand to his waist, fanning her fingers over the sharp leanness of his ribs. _It wasn’t your fault._

But, oh, her poor love, he would always hold himself accountable for things outside of his control. Solas broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. Ariala studied the contours of his face, and placed both hands at the hem of his tunic. “May I?” she asked, very softly.

Solas’s eyes opened, and he swallowed hard. Instead of answering, he licked his lips, and moved off of her, sitting up. Ariala went with him, and kissed him as her palms dipped under his tunic, lifting it up. The kiss seemed to be the distraction he needed, because he let her remove the shirt with no trouble. But once it was off—once the blueish light from the stormclouds outside shone upon his pale body—he went rigid, nearly trembling with tension.

Ariala held his gaze, then sat back to examine him. The pattern of Elgar’nan’s vallaslin was imprinted on his skin in thick ropes of scar tissue, winding around his stomach and shoulders. The healer had saved his life, but she had not been able to stop the marks. Ariala was grateful to her anyway.

Solas’s hands fisted in the bedsheets, and he looked away. “I did not wish for you to see me this way,” he said, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain outside. “This—it was a mark of ownership, of Elgar’nan’s sovereignty. He did it to nobles who disobeyed him and rebellious slaves who were too useful to be killed. I…” he looked away, and his next words were a whisper. “I was too weak to stop him.”

“Solas,” she said. His gaze flickered back to her. Though his name felt familiar on her tongue, it didn’t feel right. _That’s Mythal, not me_ , she thought, and leaned closer so she could kiss him. Solas responded, opening his mouth when she kissed the seam of his lips, and his hands settled on her waist, drifting up her bare skin. She gently pushed him down onto the mattress, then straddled him, sitting up and staring at him until he would look at her.

When he did, the hands on her hips stilled. “Solas,” she sighed again, and spread her fingers over his chest. There was a noticeable texture difference when she touched his skin and the scars, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he believe her next words. “Can I tell you a secret, my heart?”

Solas swallowed, and a hand on her hip lifted to caress her cheek. “Always.”

Ariala half-smiled and cupped the back of his hand, turning her head to kiss the inside of his palm. She met his gaze again and said, “You deserve better than what these cruel marks represent.”

Solas’s lips parted, and, shockingly, a tear spilled down his cheek when he blinked. Ariala brushed it away, suddenly fearful that she’d said the wrong thing, but before she could speak Solas was surging up to meet her, slanting his mouth over hers and kissing her with a startling desperation.

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing her in-between each word. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

All she could do was hold him close. She smiled when he breathed his love across her throat, laughed when he found a sensitive spot on her ribs to tickle. Solas laughed with her, and held her close, as if her laughter was a precious treasure he wished to keep to himself. “My heart,” he sighed; it no longer felt like a tethering of her soul to his, but a promise.

Ariala started when he flipped them over, pressing her into the mattress with the weight of his body; the searing heat of his kisses helped her relax into the pillows, and focus only on him. Solas ran his fingers through her hair, then began to kiss his way down her body.

Oh.

Well, if he insisted, then by all means.

Solas stopped at her breasts, taking time to measure them in his hands. His eyes darkened when he brushed his thumbs over her nipples and they hardened under his touch, and then he dipped down to kiss the scar on her chest once again. His lips drifted from the pink skin to a dusky nipple, and his tongue darted out to taste her.

Ariala laughed, and he looked up, eyebrow cocked. “That doesn’t do much for me,” she admitted, grinning, “but please, don’t let me stop you.”

He kissed the underside of her left breast, breathing _perfect_ against her ribs, and she ran her hand over his fuzzy scalp as he continued his journey down her body. He was intent on exploring every uncharted inch of skin, pulling sighs and giggles from her with every sensitive spot he found. Every noise she made seemed to delight him, and soon enough he could not stop smiling against her skin.

“I have waited so long for you,” he murmured against the jut of her hipbone. He lifted his gaze to hers, and Ariala’s breath caught in her throat. “You are beautiful, vhenan. I—”

“Oh, stop that,” she chided, running her palm over his fuzz again. “If anyone’s beautiful here, it’s you.”

Solas stilled, eyes wide and dark blue, and Ariala cleared her throat. “I, um—do you like this?” she asked, adding her left hand and rubbing circles into his scalp. The top of his head was suddenly blue-green, but he didn’t seem to mind that she was, essentially, petting him.

Solas laughed. “The hair, or being stroked like a cat?”

She smiled, her cheeks heating. “The hair, you ass.”

Solas hummed, kissing her inner thigh, and—that was _far_ more distracting than it should have been. Ariala fixed her gaze on the ceiling, trying to even out her breathing. “Do you?” he returned, lips drifting closer to her sex.

“That shouldn’t matt— _ah_!” Her mind blanked as he parted her folds with one long, savoring stroke. Solas groaned low in his throat and pressed closer, the heat of his tongue searing her brain until she couldn’t think straight. Ariala gasped, hips lifting toward him, and when he slid a finger into her and crooked it against a sweet spot inside her, her eyes fluttered shut.

She gasped his name, fingers digging into the sheets, but despite her body’s attempts to reach climax, Solas was intent on slow and steady. He spread her open and _savored_ her, teasing and stroking until her thighs quivered and her sounds had turned to high, breathless moans.

When his tongue flicked at her clit, her toes curled, and heat pooled between her thighs, collecting into a knot of tension that made her legs shake. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, swallowing hard, and Solas moaned as he focused solely on her clit. Her back arched and one of her hands returned to his scalp, urging him on. All she could focus on was him—the steady slide of his fingers inside of her, the gentle rasp of his tongue against her folds, the warmth of him pressed against her.

It was—it was too much.

When she finally came, it was with his name on her lips. One hand clutched at the pillow under her head and the other tightened on the crown of his head. Solas guided her through it, then pressed kisses to her inner thigh and murmured endearments while she tried to catch her breath.

He grinned at her when she turned boneless on the sheets, smug satisfaction shining in his eyes, and Ariala returned his grin with a wry smile of her own. “Come here, you,” she said, and he kissed his way up her body. He settled between her splayed legs, resting a hand on either side of her, and she managed to hook her ankles around his waist.

When she kissed him, she tasted herself on his tongue. The hands framing her head fisted into the bedsheets, and heat spiked through her. “Solas,” she murmured against his cheek. Solas groaned, lowering his head to the juncture of her shoulder, and gripped her waist as he entered her.

She held him close, waiting for her body to relax—she was by no means a virgin, but it had been six years or more—and for the sweet ache of her stretching muscles to subside. When it did, she kissed him, and reached for his hand with her Anchored one. He threaded their fingers together and pulled back, thrusting into her with a low moan.

Her nerves sang. “I love you,” she gasped, the words spilling out of her. Solas held her tighter, and her free hand wrapped around him, fingers splaying in the space between his shoulderblades. “I love you, ma vhenan, Solas—vhen— _ah!_ ”

“You undo me,” Solas whispered in Elvhen against her throat. His grip on her hand was so tight it was almost painful, but it was submerged by the liquid pleasure thrumming through her. She felt—not _complete_ , exactly, but connected. They had always been bound together, ever since that first rift. This—this was just a conclusion of their dance.

A strengthening of the threads that had already tied them together.

Solas’s mouth was at her cheek, ghosting over the corner of her lips, and then he was swallowing her gasps greedily, drinking her in. Ariala could only clutch at him, and hope that her desperate kisses conveyed the feelings that weighed upon and lightened her heart. Solas broke away, his thrusts turning erratic, and pressed his mouth to the juncture of her neck. “You have me, my love, heart and mind and soul. I cannot live without you,” he continued, something in his voice cracking. “I do not wish to go another day if you are not at my side.”

“You don’t have to,” she returned, in Elvhen, and the Anchor flared in her hand, painting them both in green-blue light. Solas looked up, eyes wide and shocked, almost as though he’d forgotten the Well could translate her words. Ariala released his hand and cupped his face, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed into her again. It was so  _good;_ it would be the simplest thing, to lose herself in him.

No. _No,_ she thought, and forced herself to open her eyes, to look at him. “I’m here, Solas,” she said. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

With a ragged breath, Solas slanted his mouth over hers, his pace quickening. He pressed his devotion into her body with every brush of his lips, breathed his love in the corner of her mouth and over the crease of her forehead, touched her with a trembling intensity that sent shivers down her spine.

Is this what it felt like, she wondered, to be totally, utterly adored?

“My love,” he gasped; Ariala held him close, kissing his temple as he stiffened and spilled into her. Moments later, his fingers were rubbing hard little circles against her clit, and she followed his release with her own.

When they fell still, she closed her eyes, savoring the weight of him on her body. Solas was holding her close once again, his lips lingering, kissing aimless patterns over her upper chest. His mouth would drift from her collarbone to press against the scar from Andruil’s arrow—always, always with a soft, sorrowful reverence—and then move back up to tickle at her throat.

Ariala sighed, running her right hand over his fuzz while her left splayed across his back. When he pulled out of her and rolled them over, so she was the one nearly on top of him, she did not protest. She rested her ear over his heart, counting out the heartbeats and thinking back on his words.

Solas was no god, not truly, but the power he was capable of wielding marked him as such to many others. There was a frightening power, perhaps, in owning a supposed god’s heart. He had given his love to her so carefully. She would not betray that trust.

“Do you still wish to prepare for dinner?” he murmured, tucking her hair out of her face with unspeakable tenderness. Her heart ached at the gentleness of his touch. Perhaps it had grown used to his absence, or his distance, and did not know what to do now that nothing held him back. She ignored it and took his hand in hers, kissing his fingertips before returning to the task of counting his heartbeats.

“Later,” she whispered, threading her fingers through his. “I want to listen to the rain.”

Solas kissed the top of her head, and together they watched the rainstorm. Ariala listened to the soothing patter on the roof, her Anchored hand tracing patterns over Solas’s bare chest; when her eyes slipped shut, she did not fight her exhaustion, and succumbed to slumber.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariala finally gets that bath and it's everything she's ever wanted. Also, a stranger comes to Denerim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN A BAJILLION YEARS, BUT I STILL GOT IT. [crowd boos in the background]
> 
> All you need to know about this chapter is a) that it is mostly fluff and b) I have never read the Masked Empire, so I hope my Briala characterization isn't too iffy. If you're not interested in me being sappy about how much I love y'all, please continue to the chapter. :)
> 
> Ok, so, this chapter is dedicated to everyone who has left a comment, kudos, or bookmark on this fic, even before it went on semi-hiatus. Listen, guys, I am not the best at responding to comments, but by God, the responses I got on chapter twenty-five warmed my heart. Your encouragements have kept me from abandoning this fic all together, and I promise, I _promise_ , because if I know there is even one person waiting on an update to Shatter Me, that one person will keep me going. Even if it takes me a year to write each chapter, I will finish this fic, come hell or high water. 
> 
> Special shoutout to Bdafic, whose heartfelt review was the initial rev to my engine, so to speak, and is what I go back to when I need reminders that Shatter Me is worth continuing. And also to Kauri, because word has it that she's been having a bad week and she deserves some love.
> 
> I just really hope that these chapters are worth such a long wait (I know I am an abominably slow writer, and for that I apologize.)
> 
> I hope chapter 26 makes up for the wait(s). :)

Ah, Denerim.

A foul place, but it smelled like home—the stench of piss was universal, after all, and the weight of inescapable poverty crushed elves all the same. The leather was not nearly as fine as his homeland’s, but the city’s armorer could, admittedly, craft a very fine set of drakeskin.

The building he stood before was dilapidated, as alienage shambles were wont to be, but the woman scowling at him in the doorway made it twice as lovely.

“Ah, my dear Shianni,” he greeted, sweeping over her hand and pressing a kiss to it. Still holding her hand, he looked up and grinned. “Has anyone told you how ravish—”

Shianni pulled her hand free and crossed her arms, one red eyebrow going up. Even in her mid-thirties she had all the youth and spirit of ten years ago. “She isn’t here,” she said.

Zevran’s grin faltered for but a heartbeat. “Well, perhaps I wanted to visit _you_ —”

Shianni snorted. “Save it.” After a moment, she squinted at him. “Aren’t you with that Inquisition nowadays? What are you doing here?”

“Yes,” said Zevran, offering up a charming grin.

The Bann took a moment to process his words, frowning at him half-heartedly. “Since you’re here and Kalli won’t be back for a while, you might as well come in,” she said, stepping aside. Zevran pushed back his hood and went inside, noting how Shianni locked the door behind him. He found himself reaching for one of the concealed daggers at his side before catching himself. _Ah, Zevran, Inquisition work has made you paranoid._

He discovered why she had locked the door when he found the kitchen. A mousetrap was set in the corner, but its intended prey had stolen the cheese—some time ago, if the dust on it was any indication. At the table, which had a broken leg padded with bricks from the street rubble to balance it, a familiar brown-skinned woman sat, staring into a tin. She wore no mask, and it was broad daylight, but Zevran recognized her nonetheless.

“Marquise Briala,” he said, sweeping into another bow. “A delight to see you again.”

Briala looked up and stared at him for half a heartbeat, before she saw the tattoo on his face and her expression shuttered. “You,” she said.

“Me,” Zevran agreed.

Briala rose to her feet. “Shianni, he is an Inquisition spy. Whatever he hears here, he will tell the Inquisition. And since the Inquisitor is gone, we have no idea how they may react.”

“He’s a trusted friend,” said Shianni, crossing her arms. Zevran placed his hand over his heart; she smacked his arm without looking away from Briala. “And you still haven’t sold me on this idea of yours. What you can tell me, you can tell him.”

Briala hesitated, her finger rimming the metal cup, before sitting back, her gaze on him. “You recall that I have an eluvian network at my disposal,” she said.

“What is an eluvian?” Zevran asked. Briala smiled, tightly, and did not answer.

“Some magic mirror… thing,” Shianni supplied. “An instant transportation system, or so the Marquise would have me believe.”

Ah. Perhaps _that_ was how they escaped Val Royeaux.

Briala sighed through her nose, giving Zevran a wary look before continuing. “My people and I have been making a comprehensive map of this network and each mirror’s location. One leads to a land none have seen. It is empty of people, but is forested and rich in game and water. It may not even be in Thedas.”

“An in between place,” Zevran said. Briala fixed him with a sharp look.

“You know of these?”

Zevran smiled, and positioned himself by the window, lifting the curtain with two fingers to peer outside. “A friend raised her son in such a place, I have heard. It was just the two of them for years.”

“Gaspard’s betrayal has made me realize that the nobles will never treat our people with dignity—they are too used to us being their servants, their slaves. Take that away, and they have nothing left. They are left in chaos, and _we_ have a fresh start.”

“And all the elves in Thedas will live here?”

“As many that join. I have already settled many elves from various cities—Lydes, Val Royeaux, Kirkwall. The last of the Antivan Dalish joined us a week ago. And I have an agent in Minrathous, who has already freed five households of slaves from under the magisters’ noses. Two more are expected in the next week. I have planned this _thoroughly_ since I learned of Gaspard’s plot to topple me, Bann Shianni.”

Shianni shakes her head. “Say Denerim joins your exodus. If every elf in Thedas lives in this… in between place, who will lead them?”

“You were elected by your people,” Briala returns. “I mean to see the same thing happen with this new land. It would be a ruling council, of sorts, but I still need to work out the precise details. Our people deserve to choose their leaders, not have their leaders forced onto them—and if the Inquisitor were here, she would say the same thing. She has always been a steadfast ally to the cause.”

“But the Inquisitor is not here,” Zevran supplies, mildly, leaning against the wall. “I believe you saw to that, no?”

Briala stared at him, expression blank. “What are you talking about?”

Zevran glanced outside, and stiffened. He reached for the dagger concealed beneath his cloak. “We will have to continue this discussion another time. It seems we have company, Shianni.”

A dark-haired elf, clutching an abdomen wound, was indeed stumbling straight for the front door.

“Hide,” Shianni barked to Briala. “Upstairs, the closet has a hidden door on the left. _Go_.”

Briala went, and Zevran shifted so he was in front of Shianni, pulling a knife from its sheath at his hip. When the man collapsed on the doorstep, managing only a few strong knocks before succumbing to a cough, Zevran glanced at Shianni. She had a kitchen knife, too, but when she met Zevran’s gaze she nodded.

Zevran opened the door, and stared at the black-haired man kneeling on Shianni’s doorstep. His hair was braided back, in an intricate style Zevran had never seen, and his eyes were a bright, iron blue. Blood shone on his lips, and his palm was red where he pressed it against his wound.

“Help me,” he rasped. “Please.”

* * *

Ariala awoke to an overcast sky, and the smell of food. She inhaled deeply, nuzzling into the pillow, the scent of dinner making her stomach rumble. Solas was kissing her shoulder, his hand resting over her bicep. His lips drifted over the curve of her shoulder. His body heat was dulling her senses, weighing her down. For a moment, all she wanted was to close her eyes and go back to sleep.

But then her stomach clenched, painful in its emptiness, and she had to open her eyes to relative darkness. There was a platter of meat and brightly colored fruit, orange and purple and vivid pink. One plum-colored piece had yellow spikes, and a knife was stuck in its skin. A crystal glass was next to the platter, full of a semi-clear liquid with a faint red taint.

Solas was still kissing the back of her neck, and she didn’t really want to move… but she was hungry.

Food, or Solas.

Hmm.

_Sorry, vhenan._

She turned in his arms, greeting him with a smile before shrugging off his touch and sitting up. She pulled the platter onto her lap and grabbed the knife, lifting the entire fist-sized strange fruit and pointing it at him. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes.”

“You got me food while I was asleep?” When he nodded, she smiled, affection rushing through her. “I’m keeping you around for a long while. I hope you know that.”

Solas laughed, a delightful sound, and leaned forward, pressing his lips to her hair. Ariala gave him a rueful smile. “Don’t be too hasty, sir, I still haven’t bathed.”

In response, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. She sighed, sinking into his warmth as she dug into her meal. He was dressed, and while she would have loved nothing more than to turn around and kiss him properly, her rumbling stomach was too hard to ignore.

“Any nightmares?” he asked.

“No, but I didn’t dream, either,” she returned, popping one of the orange things into her mouth. Sweetness burst into her mouth, followed by a sharp sting of citrus, and a noise escaped her before she could stop it. Solas laughed harder as her cheeks hollowed, and ran a hand down her back. She swallowed the fruit and licked her teeth. “Huh.”

Solas stroked her back again, seeming to take comfort in touching her. “Abelas wants to see you,” he whispered, hushed. “I told him I would wake you. He is waiting outside.”

“Food and kisses is the best way to wake anyone up,” Ariala declared, then registered the last part of his sentence and went still. “Wait. He’s _here?_ As in, right now?”

Solas nodded. “I thought we might discuss what we should tell him.”

Ariala pursed her lips. “We tell him the truth?” At Solas’s exasperated look, she shrugged, reaching for another orange fruit. “I mean, he served Mythal. She trusted him to guard one of her shards—which means he might know where the others are, provided Dirthamen hasn’t moved them. And Abelas may know why Mythal is messing around in my head.”

“So trusting, my heart,” Solas stated, but there was no bite to his words.

Ariala gave him a look. “Don’t think for one second I bought your _I learned literally everything in the Fade_ for two seconds, especially after the Temple of Mythal.”

Solas’s brows rose. “You doubted and you said nothing?”

“It was none of my business, Solas. Your affairs were yours.” She started cutting into the pink spiky fruit. It was sourer, but its biting taste gave way to a not-unpleasant vivid aftertaste. “And I don’t think you would’ve appreciated it if I confronted you.”

“Probably true,” he admitted. He kissed the curve of her shoulder and got off the bed, moving toward the door. Ariala tucked the bedsheets under her armpits and tucked in her arms, focusing on her food as Abelas strode into the door. She didn’t look up as the sentinel stood in front of the windows, his silhouette casting a shadow across the bed.

He did not waste time. He considered her through narrowed eyes and said, “What spirit is possessing you?”

“Straight to the point,” Ariala said. “I like that in a man.” She winked at Solas, who gave her a strained smile and looked down.

Abelas was not amused. “The eluvian you crossed through is defunct, as most were, after the fall. No spirit should have had the power to reactivate its magic. You are still here because I am allowing it.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you know or not?”

Ariala licked her fingers. “Mythal. When I came in all glowy, that was Mythal. Possessing me.”

Abelas did not look surprised; if anything, it looked as though his worst fear had come to pass. “But you knew that,” Solas ventured, quietly. Abelas nodded, turning his back on them, his gauntleted hands fisting at his sides. “If you knew, why did you ask?”

“Because I hoped I was wrong.” He turned again, fixing Ariala with a hard stare. “Do you know what you have done? What path you have begun to walk?”

“Well, no, not at all,” Ariala said. Solas sighed, exasperated, beside her. She frowned at him, mouthed _behave_ , then looked back at Abelas. “I—we—were… sorta hoping you could help us out with that.”

“Mythal chose this place for a reason,” Solas said. “And you—and the sentinels—are still bound to protect her, are you not? Whatever form of protection that may be.”

Ariala stopped sucking on her fruit, and looked at Solas. “Are you saying there’s a _shard_ here?”

“Ask him.” Solas didn’t look away from Abelas. “He cannot lie to you, vhenan, not while you host Mythal.”

“I will explain whatever she wishes to know,” Abelas said, “but only to her. I have a patrol in an hour. Join me. Whatever questions you wish to ask, ask them there. He—” Abelas fixed Solas with a hard stare, “—cannot join us.”

“Um,” Ariala said. “That’s not—”

“One hour.” Abelas left the room, looking no happier than he had when he walked in. Ariala made a face at his back, and offered the last of her fruit to Solas. He shook his head and she dropped it back onto her plate, letting the sheets slip from their place under her arms.

“I’m looking forward to that talk of ours,” she muttered, setting the tray at the end of the bed and kicking off the sheets. The floor was cool against her feet as she stood up and stretched, then turned to Solas. When she held out her hand, he took it, pressing his lips against the soft skin of her inner wrist. “But first, bath. Join me?”

“Yes,” he replied, but there was a look in his eyes she didn’t like. Those were his brooding eyes.

“Are you brooding?” she asked, as they walk to the second floor.

Solas managed a small, halfhearted smile. “Yes.”

“You know the rules,” she sing-songed. “If you brood, you need to tell me _why_.”

“Let us bathe, first, please,” he returned. “We have one hour; I wish to make the most of it.”

The bathroom was beautiful, as most Elvhen things were; the floor was a polished white marble, and the walls were covered in bright frescoes of the jungle—at dawn, at dusk, at night. The bath itself was the same marble as the floor, with four little holes in the sides and one in the floor. The exterior had two raised squares carved into the side: one bearing a teardrop, and the other a waterfall. The side holes were fed by the rainwater collected from the roofs, it seemed; when she pressed the teardrop, she could hear the water rushing from the ceiling to drain into the tub. And when she pulled her hand away, the water stopped, and the side holes closed.

 _What_.

“This is amazing,” Ariala said, eyes wide. “Gods. We need to get this at Skyhold. Holy shit.”

Behind her, Solas chuckled, and for a brief moment she felt his lips against her hair. He directed her attention to a basket on the rim of the tub, full of little stones that were warm to the touch. When she threw two into the water, they dissolved, and steam began to curl into the air. There was also a tray, bearing a handful of glass bottles of oils, creams, and a clear gel she had never seen before. There was a small blade next to the gel, and an empty pitcher off to the side.

Ariala turned around, reached up and rubbed her hand across Solas’s fuzz. “Still like your hair?”

Solas laughed, a snort punctuating the end of it. “I feel as if you are implying that you do not.”

She grinned, unrepentant, and it only made his smile deepen. He leaned in, kissing her eagerly, his hands curving around her waist to settle on her ass. When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. “All right, love, get in there,” she said, with a goodbye peck to his cheek.

When Solas was settled in the water, she moved the tray to the floor and sat behind him. “Use the gel,” he said. She hummed in acknowledgement and picked up the jar, scooping up two fingers’ worth of the gel. When she rubbed it between her hands, it turned into a thick white cream that smelled like citrus and sandalwood. Not a combination she would’ve thought of, but it was nice.

“Sweet Maker,” she breathed, “if we had this at Skyhold I would have shaved _all the time_. Actually, no, I probably wouldn’t have, but the point still stands. By the way, if I nick you, apologies in advance, it isn’t on purpose.”

“You are forgiven,” he said.

She worked the slather into his scalp, smiling as he slowly relaxed in front of her. At some point, Solas tilted his head back to stare at her. She leaned forward, pecking his nose. Then she pushed his head back and continued her work, until his entire head was slathered in thick cream. She hummed softly as she wet the blade and got to work.

“So,” she started, flicking the cream off the razor and dousing it in water. She pressed two fingers at the base of his skull to keep him still. “What have you been up to these past two years?”

“Nothing of import,” he replied.

“Nothing of import, he says. Just freeing the elven pantheon and eating Mythal, no big deal, I do the same thing before breakfast—”

His fingers wound around the soft flesh underneath her knee and he turned his head, nipping at the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Ariala yelped and smacked his shoulder, scattering water. However, she could not stop her light laugh. “Behave!”

“I did not _eat_ Mythal.”

“I mean, you kind of did, a little—”

Solas looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and the emotion in his gaze made her words die in her mouth. He pressed his mouth against the same spot, his lips caressing the skin, and Ariala felt her heart race, a blush creeping up her throat.

“My love,” Solas whispered against her knee. He pulled away after another kiss and looked at her. “Join me.”

She stroked her fingers down his spine and dragged them back up, delighting in his shiver. “Let me finish this first,” she said. He nodded and settled back. She fought the temptation to hurry her pace—she channeled her frustration into careful evaluation, ensuring there were no rough spots or places where she had missed a shave.

When the last of the cream was washed away, Solas was once again bald—and there were no nicks on his scalp. Quite a feat, for her. Ariala kissed the top of his head and stepped out of the bath, maneuvering until she could sit in front of him, her back against his chest. The water lapped at her ribcage, and Solas sighed as he picked up the pitcher and poured warm water over her head, until her hair was heavy with water. She could hear the clinking of glass as he moved the bottles of oil from the tray. “Rose oil, citrus, or jasmine?” he asked.

“Rose, if you please,” she returned. As he began to work the oil into her hair, she settled against him, tracing absent patterns over his knee. “So what were you brooding about?”

“I am worried about Mythal,” Solas returned. “I—I did not know about the shards before her death, and I know precious little about them now. Abelas may be able to tell you more, but I fear they are meant to piece together her soul, until it is wholly reconstructed.”

“Okay, and?” Solas’s fingers tightened on her scalp for a long moment. Then he breathed out, slowly, and continued his work.

“I fear if her soul is restored, it would be at cost to your own.” She could feel his heart hammering against her back. She lifted a hand, and he clasped it with a near-bruising grip. “My love, if Abelas shows you a shard, do not take it. It would only strengthen Mythal, and solidify her willpower over yours. I do not think Mythal would deliberately harm her host, but… she is not what she once was.”

Ariala sat up, and looked at him over her shoulder. “She could _permanently_ possess me, is that what you’re saying?”

“I may be wrong,” Solas continued, quickly. “I will protect you, my love, I swear it. I won’t let her harm you. Just—do not take the shard. Keep her weak, and all will be well.”

“If Abelas shows me a shard,” she echoed, “I don’t think I would be able to stop her from taking it.”

Ariala reached for where Mythal lingered, somewhere inside the depths of her.

Mythal did not answer.

Despite the heat of the water, Ariala shivered.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> muchos gracias to playwithdinos, my partner-in-crime. also to a certain fic writer, whose reply to a review said "yeah, you'll get an update soon, i don't make my readers wait months for an update" (im paraphrasing) and provided me with a proverbial kick in the pants. much love to everyone, and may 2017 be less sucky than 2016!!
> 
> ALSO, 500+ kudos?? like.... you are all too good to me, honestly, thank you (ಥ﹏ಥ)

Zevran, Shianni and Briala were still arguing about what to do with the elf passed out in Shianni’s bedroom when Zevran spotted a familiar flash of red out of the corner of his eye.

He withdrew from the argument, turning to fully face the front window. Kallian was wearing plain clothing, but her head was uncovered, and her hair was as bright as it had been ten years ago, when the Warden had found her in a bloodstained wedding dress and recruited her to save her from the gallows.

It had been convenient that she had never gone through with the Joining, because the guards who’d known her face were killed by genlocks only months later.

He opened the door and leaned against the doorframe, noting how Shianni and Briala’s argument had trailed into silence behind him. “Amata,” Zevran called with a grin. Kallian looked up, shifting her basket of produce to her hip. A golden earing glinted from one of her ears.

Something in his chest lightened at the sight of it.

She saw him and her eyes widened. She faltered in her pace for a second, then grinned and hurried to the front door. “Out of my way,” she teased, bumping her hip against his as she pushed past him. Zevran placed a hand over his heart, turning to kick the door closed and watching her set the produce on the rickety table.

“Such cruelty—” he started, but she turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. He grabbed her hips and pulled her to him, but before anything fun could happen Shianni cleared her throat. Kallian broke the kiss, turning around to face her cousin, but Zevran pulled her back against his chest and pressed his nose to her hairline.

She smelled like stale alienage air and sweat, but she was warm and alive. That was what mattered.

“Kalli,” Shianni said, in a voice that said _I am about to tell you something horrible._ Zevran looked up, resting his chin on Kallian’s head, and arched an eyebrow. Shianni shifted her weight and avoided looking at him—all amateur mistakes. He needed to spend more time here.

To help Shianni with her lying skills, of course.

“Shianni,” said Kallian. She nodded at Briala. “Strange woman in my house.”

“Please don’t freak out,” Shianni said, lowering her hands in a placating gesture. Briala huffed a laugh. Kallian shifted, wrist rotating. Zevran heard the cracks of her wrist bones and felt the pressure of a concealed knife give way.

“Too late, I’m freaking out,” Kallian said. “Why is there a stranger in my house?”

Briala stood up, her gaze on Kallian’s left hand, the fingers of which were curled around a knife blade. “My name is Briala. I am the current Marquise of the Dales in Orlais. I came to talk to your cousin about—”

“Is that a _knife_?” Shianni asked, exasperated. “Kallian Tabris, you know the rules in _this house_ —”

“Hold that thought, Briala. Shianni, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, the knives are just a precautionary measure—”

The creak of the staircase broke off all conversations. Kallian stiffened, slipping her knife into her palm and twisting on her heel. There was almost no break between her turn and her throwing the knife at the source of the sound. Zevran watched as their mysterious houseguest moved aside and Kallian’s knife buried in the wood where his head had been seconds ago.

Ah, he loved violence in a woman.

“ _Cousin!_ ” Shianni shouted.

Kallian glowered, unrepentant. “Shianni, who the _hell_ is this—”

Zevran ignored the quickly raising voices and frowned at the stranger, troubled by his quick reflexes. Kallian had been recruited precisely _for_ her instincts and her arm; it was a rare soul who was quick enough to avoid death, even an accidental one, at her hands.

Hm.

“This… guest… is the reason I asked you not to panic,” Shianni said.

“Did this become an inn while I was buying groceries? Are we just renting out rooms to strangers now?”

The man steadied himself on the stairway railing, gripping the wood with white knuckles. He was shirtless, but most of his torso had been wrapped in what they could turn into bandages—old shirts, a stained but clean tablecloth, some of Shianni’s sewing scraps. Even so, Zevran could see blood seeping through the fabric. Perhaps it was a wound gone to rot already.

“Where am I?” he rasped, lifting his face. It was an extraordinary angle to showcase his fine jawline. “What happened?”

Zevran stepped forward with a charming smile, shifting to stand in front of the women. “You fell into my arms, my friend,” he said. He winked, but the stranger’s only response was to narrow his eyes. Ah, well. Perhaps no flirting with this one, then. “It was quite entrance. You bled all over your shirt, so we had no choice but to strip you of your garments. I, of course, took you to bed and nursed you back to health.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “My thanks,” he said, though it sounded grudging. He pressed his hand gently to his stomach wound and hissed. He didn’t seem shaken at all by the fact that someone he didn’t know had just thrown a knife at him.

Interesting.

Zevran touched Kallian’s back, and when she turned toward him, he whispered his concerns against the shell of her ear. After a moment, she nodded. “I’ve never seen you in the alienage before,” she told the man. “I know everyone here. Who are you, stranger?”

The man looked up. “Ellasin. My name is Ellasin.”

“And you’re here because…?” Kallian asked.

Ellasin looked at the Marquise. “I would like to speak with you, Marquise Briala,” he said.

* * *

Val Royeaux’s Grand Cathedral was truly astounding; it was almost as glamorous as the one in Minrathous. The floor was marble, the ceilings were painted with scenes from the Chant, and the pillars holding up the vaulted ceilings were carved into elaborate patterns and covered in gilt. Even the incense smelled expensive. And he was _fairly_ certain that the Revered Mother’s robe was silk.

Leliana looked out of place in her dusty, roughspun pilgrim’s garb, her face half-concealed by a hood. Dorian was dressed similarly, though the fabric scratched his skin. He’d have to bathe once this was over. Neither of them were armed, but Dorian had been practicing staffless magic, and he had seen Leliana snap a man’s neck with just her thighs; they should be well off against a Crow.

“Do we know where our man is?” he murmured to the Divine.

“Yes.” She rolled her head, as if stretching her neck, and Dorian looked up to where she’d gestured. An elf was leaning against one of the pillars, staring up at a painting of Andraste meeting the Maker. After a moment, he shifted and began lighting every candle. “You are meant to _pay_ for that,” Leliana muttered under her breath, then walked over.

They weren’t even halfway there when the Crow noticed them. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I trust you have a reason for delaying my vacation plans,” he said, taking out a knife and absently cleaning his fingernails with it.

Dorian rolled his eyes. Antivans. _Honestly_.

“I hear Nevarra is lovely this time of year,” Leliana said, taking the lighting taper from him and extinguishing it in the jar of sand. She stood on the opposite side of the assassin, subtly flanking him. Dorian turned, pressing his back against the pillar.

“I was told that the Inquisition had need of me,” he said. “So, who do you need dead?”

“We need information.”

His lazy grin faded. “Sweetheart,” he said, brown eyes glinting, “that isn’t in my job description.”

“You posed as a servant and killed Anora Mac Tir,” Leliana said, turning to face him. He faltered, taking a step back, but Dorian put a hand on his shoulder, halting him.

“Get your hand off me if you don’t want it broken,” he snarled, head turning to glare at Dorian. Leliana’s wrist moved, and suddenly she was gripping his chin with her right hand and pressing a blade to his throat with her left, angled to hide it from any onlookers.

“We know who hired you,” she said. “We need to know why.”

“Crows don’t betray their clients—”

“Zevran Arainai did. I’d say he’s doing well for himself.”

“ _Fuck_ that whoreson.” The Crow bites out a curse. “You _cut_ me! It is so unpleasant to kill in public, but it seems I have no—”

“You can’t kill me before I slit your throat,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “and if you do, my friend will avenge me. I have seen him incinerate thugs like you in the time it takes to blink. Do yourself a favor, and give me what I want.”

Ariala had called Leliana terrifying, once, when they’d both been deep into their cups and whispering “secrets” throughout the night. Secrets like _I think Jim is the most unappreciated scout in the whole damn castle_ and _I have never understood why Skyhold’s first builder thought it would be a great idea to build a fortress in the fucking mountains._

He wouldn’t have used such a strong word as _terrifying,_ before, but now he saw what she’d meant.

The Crow lasted for a solid fifteen seconds. “I want compensation for this,” he hissed. “And get your fucking hands off of me.”

“Of course.” She met Dorian’s eye over his shoulder, and with a sharp nod, they both stepped away. The Crow muttered a curse, righting his crumpled clothes, and shook his head.

“Well. I suppose since I _did_ carry out the contract, there is no reason for me to hold my tongue. Especially not for friends as _generous_ as you.”

Were all Antivans so… passive aggressive?

Leliana slipped her knife back up her sleeve. “Tell us everything.”

“My payment?”

“Double whatever you got for your assignment,” she countered. The Crow’s eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise.

“I fear you will not be able to afford that, signora,” he said, with a pointed look at her outfit. Leliana gave him a hard look and he held up his hands. “All right, all _right_. Who am I to refuse a woman such as you? Monette… is convinced she carries a son, Gaspard’s bastard. She believed that if Anora was out of the way, she would be able to marry him and have a legitimate child.”

“And that was the extent of Gaspard’s involvement?” Leliana pressed. When the Crow nodded, she scowled, looking aside. “ _Merde._ ” She collected herself. “We will need your testimony. Not only written, but verbal as well, in front of Gaspard and the Divine.”

“You _are_ aware that Gaspard wants to hang me by my entrails, no?” He crossed his arms. “Val Royeaux is plastered with posters of me. And the Marquise, but mostly me.”

“You will have the Inquisition’s protection.”

“He will?” Dorian asked, at the same time the Crow said “I will?”

“You will not be paid until after your testimony, of course,” Leliana said, casually turning back to the candles. “The Divine will verify me of your presence at the trial. Until then, wait here in sanctuary until an agent of the Inquisition can take you to a safe house.”

The Crow frowned. He opened his mouth, but Leliana gave him another look, and he closed it. “When is this trial?”

“Within the month. We will be in contact,” said Leliana. “You testify against Monette, and we pay you twice your commission fee for the death of Anora Mac Tir. Do we have a deal?”

The Crow paused, then nodded. Leliana inclined her head and, tucking her hands behind her back, turned away. Dorian followed her.

He waited until they were out of the Cathedral to speak. “Did you actually know Monette was the one responsible for Anora’s death?” he asked, under his breath.

Leliana smiled, slowly. “No.”

 

She found him an hour later, taking a bath in the guest suite of the Divine’s apartments in the Grand Cathedral. Dorian yelped, but Leliana did not even blink as she crossed the room and handed him the thick stack of papers. “From Skyhold,” she said. All of their seals remained unbroken, but the stickiness of the wax left much to be desired. When he’d taken the stack from her, she went to his bed and sat down.

“You’ve read these, I presume,” he said, breaking the seal on the first one properly.

“You wound me, Dorian.”

“That’s a yes, then.”

He opened the letter. Maevaris’s handwriting, graceful and elegant, filled the entire page. He smiled at the first initial greetings— _the Lucerni party is not faring as terribly as we thought it would_ was her idea of “good news,” it seemed. His smile faded when he continued reading.

_The Magisterium is no longer truly concerned with our reforms, however. Various Magisters have been found murdered in their beds, and their slaves vanished in the night. There is no trace of the slaves, anywhere. Everyone is wondering who is responsible, and who will be next. Some whisper of a rebellion in the works; others wonder if Danarius’s pet has returned to exact his vengeance at last, for some Magisters were found with their hearts crushed but no external wounds on their body._

_I am sorry to say that your father was one of those Magisters found dead._

Dorian stopped reading. He lowered the parchment, careful not to let it touch the water.

He didn’t realise he was staring off into space until Leliana asked, “What is it?”

He looked at her. “My father is dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m... not quite sure how to feel about it.” Ariala had encouraged him to… not _forgive_ his father, but perhaps attempt some sort of healing. They’d exchanged letters after his father returned to Tevinter, every so often. But—he looked back at the letter. “Maevaris says that elven slaves are disappearing. Sounds remarkably similar to our situation in Orlais, doesn’t it?”

“It is worrying, yes. I do not know what Briala is trying to achieve with this.”

Dorian kept reading. _Your mother is living with me, for your household has vanished. She wishes you to come home at once to assist her in putting your father’s affairs in order._

Ah, just what he needed—to see his mother again. “Mae wants me to return to Tevinter.”

Leliana’s expression gave nothing away. “Will you?”

“I don’t know. There is my work with the College, and—Ari is still missing.” But wasn’t this what he had wanted, what he had longed for? A chance to change Tevinter from within?

After a long, thoughtful pause, he set Mae’s letter aside and turned to the next in the stack. It was a missive from Fiona, approving his request for research funding. He and Dagna were meant to be studying red lyrium together. The next was… a letter from the Archon.

 _It is with greatest pleasure that I inform you of your appointment to the Magisterium. We await your return to Tevinter, Magister Pavus._ No mention of his father.

Dorian muttered a curse under his breath and set that letter aside. The last missive was from a professor at the College, asking his input for one of her lectures. Well, at least that was simple. He’d have a response to Professor Surana by nightfall.

Leliana was staring at him. “I don’t know if I’ll go back,” he said. “There are—many factors to consider. I’ll have to think about it. I don’t want to leave before Ariala’s found.”

She nodded. “Understandable. I will write to Skyhold, inform Cullen and Josie about the events in Tevinter.” She stood, and cocked her head. “Do you know what Maevaris meant when she pointed to _Danarius’s pet_ as a potential suspect?”

He nodded. “Danarius was a Magister who was… not particularly subtle about his use of blood magic, if I recall. He conducted an experiment, to see if lyrium could be… merged with a living being. The result was a boy he named Fenris.”

She did not look surprised. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” he deduced.

Leliana’s eyes narrowed. “I will have to speak with Varric,” she said. “Enjoy your bath, Dorian.”

Of course. Because that would be so simple, after the news he’d just received.

* * *

Ariala left the treehouse three minutes before the hour was up; Abelas was on the wooden balcony, arms crossed, fingers flexing against his golden armor. He gave no indication that he had heard her approach, but once she was at his side he nodded. “Come.”

“I’m doing great, thanks for asking,” she told him, turning as he brushed past her.

“We will be late for the patrol,” he said, leading her across a stone bridge. There were no supports, yet it still stood by itself, even though the trees it was anchored between were a good hundred feet away. Architectural genius, or magic?

Magic. Probably.

“So what is this patrol, exactly?” she asked, hurrying to catch up with his long stride. “Do you actually patrol the jungle floors?”

“Yes. We ensure no hunters are lost on the ground and check the wards to see if they are functioning.”

“Hunters on the ground?”

Abelas looked at her, arching an eyebrow. “There is no food up here, Inquisitor, if you had not noticed. These trees do not bear fruit like the vines below.”

“Fair enough,” she said, taking the opportunity to look at the colony around her. Multilayer houses, made with polished wood and silverite and spun crystal, all built around the trunk of the tree. Even where the roof of one house ended, if she looked up she could see the floor of another. It seemed like a web of roads and houses, and it had been here for thousands of years.

The Arlathvhen was just over a month away, if she had been keeping track of time correctly. This would be—momentous for the People. These elves could share so much knowledge, if they wished. “Is everyone here immortal?”

“The first generation is. The children born to them… were not as long-lived.”

Ariala frowned, turning to Abelas. “I’m sorry.”

“It is a cost of the Veil,” Abelas said.

“The Veil… what do you mean by that? The Veil’s always been here. It’s what keeps us safe from demons.”

Abelas glanced at her. “Did the healer not speak to you of this already?”

Ariala frowned at his implication. “First of all, I was a little _preoccupied_ at that moment, thank you very much. Second, if you’re saying the Veil didn’t exist in ancient Elvhenan, then what—”

Unintelligible whispers brushed down her spine, like ice water, like the Well. She came to an abrupt halt before a curved structure made of glass and silverite. There was no external door; the only decoration was a mosaic of a winged woman, with the head of a dragon. Some pieces were missing, leaving the mosaic incomplete.

Ariala took a step closer to the building, and the whispers grew louder. A gaping hole rested where the mosaic’s heart should have been. The gold of the woman’s eyes were tarnished, clouded with green rot, but Ariala could _feel_ her gaze.

The air became thick around her, dreamlike. It felt like she was standing at the edge of the Well again, ready to step into the water. The whispers were a hum, now, ever-present in the back of her mind.

“Mythal,” she whispered, and felt something _other_ shift within her. She lifted a hand to touch the mosaic—

Abelas grabbed her wrist and wrenched it down.

Ariala stumbled away, knocked from her—her trance, or whatever that was. She allowed herself to be pulled back, shaken, eyes wide as she stared at the sentinel. “If there’s a shard in there, move it,” she told him. “Please. Abelas, please, move it.”

She’d have to tell Solas. He’d need to watch her, make sure Mythal didn’t get that shard of herself, didn’t get the chance to strengthen her power over Ariala’s soul.

Some blue light flickered in his eyes, and he nodded. He released her and moved toward the mosaic, something mechanical in his movements. Her stomach twisted. Was he…?

Abelas lifted his hand, and she realized that, yes, that had come out as a command.

“Stop!” she cried.

He froze, hand hovering over the mosaic. She shook her head, mouth dry, and wondered if this was how Solas had felt at Sylaise’s temple. “Abelas, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to command you. You can… uh, you’re free to do what you want. How do I… release you from… her authority?”

Abelas relaxed, lowering his hand, and she exhaled. “You cannot,” he said, turning toward her. There was pity in his eyes. “But I would not wish to cease serving her, nonetheless. I will move it someplace safe when you are not with me.”

“Thank you,” she said, swallowing hard.

“For now, let us continue the patrol,” he said, “and see to your questions.”

He led her down a sloping path that ended up being a spiral staircase that wound down the tree. “You all must have excellent thighs because of this,” she commented halfway down, and Abelas huffed in response. Perhaps that was the closest she’d ever get to hearing him laugh.

They had to stop at some kind of checkpoint, which was populated with other, unfamiliar elves in golden armor and Mythal’s green vallaslin. Some, after recovering their surprise, even nodded at her. She found herself nodding back, even though she had forgotten the sentinels’ faces. When Abelas moved on, the staircase began to shift, to resemble the treebark more and a staircase less. Soon it felt like she was walking on an extension of the tree itself, and not something made by elvhen hands.

Once they finally reached the ground, Ariala took a moment to look back up. The tree had many layers of leaves, it seemed; she couldn’t see anything past the canopy. To any explorer who didn’t see the camouflaged staircase, this place would seem uninhabited.

“This place is amazing,” she said, turning in a circle. The whole jungle was a rich green, with bursts of yellow and bright purple. She saw a plant that bore the orange fruit she’d eaten for breakfast. “Just… stunning.”

“I had thought it was lost,” Abelas said. “It was a long journey, and thankfully it was not in vain.”

“How have you been doing?” she asked, falling in step beside him. Abelas looked at her, brow furrowed. “I mean, with the transition from the temple to this place.”

“This is not what I imagined when I invited you to join my patrol.”

“I’m just warming up,” she said. “No personal questions, got it. So the Veil, then. If it didn’t exist in ancient Elvhenan, then why is it here now? What caused it?”

“I am surprised you did not ask your lover.”

“I haven’t had the chance, Abelas, if you haven’t _noticed_ —”

Abelas stopped, a hiss escaping between his teeth. Ariala asked him what had happened, but a few seconds later, she felt it. The Anchor sparked as a sense of _wrongness_ washed over her, and something began to chime, like bells.

“Uh-oh,” she said.

“The wards have been broken,” Abelas said. “Do not lose me.” He sprinted off, as if his sword and his armor didn’t weigh him down one bit. He was gone in moments. Ariala shook her head, fighting the temptation to throw her hands in the air, and went after him.

She found him with his sword drawn. A Dalish elf in Grey Warden regalia stood at the other end of his blade. Her gloved hands were raised in surrender, but a mabari with a gray muzzle stood growling at her side. Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin was writ across her face. But the most striking thing about her was her silver hair.

She’s only ever known one elf with silver hair.

“Lyna Mahariel?” Ariala asked. “Hero of Ferelden?”

Lyna smiled, but there was a hard edge to it. “I can explain,” she said.


End file.
